


The Narrow Way

by lunesque (Moriavis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Apocalypse, Case Fic, Demons, F/M, Gen, Het and Slash, Implied Relationships, M/M, On Hiatus, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriavis/pseuds/lunesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there it was. A woman with wild, white hair; her mouth opened in a scream, and a second later it was piercing into his ears, sharp and almost as painful as the sound of Castiel's voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cry Baby Cry

**Author's Note:**

> All right, there are a lot of notes here. I originally began writing this in November of '08, after two episodes of Supernatural season 4 had aired. So, it is canon until S4 E2 'Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester.' I did take the parts of show canon that I liked and manipulated it into my story, whenever it already fit my intentions. I tried to be as accurate as possible, but once again, accuracy at times was played with in accordance to my plot. This is my version of Season 4 of Supernatural, my Apocalypse.

Jeff Wilson knew he was driving too fast, but he was creeped out by the long, silent stretch of road, and the stupid radio had been fussy for the last couple of miles, so he'd turned it off. Melanie was fast asleep in the passenger seat beside him, and he tried to relax, to listen to her breathing and calm down. The trees were passing by him in blurs, outlines dark and fuzzy, and he eased off the gas sheepishly.

Melanie stirred in her seat as he slowed, her eyes cracking open as she yawned and tried to stretch in her seat without hitting him in the side of his head. "Jeff?" she asked quietly, her voice thick with sleep, and he glanced over at her with a smile. "Where are we?"

"We're taking the scenic route," he said heartily. "That's what road trips are for, right?"

Melanie sighed, giving him the look that meant he wasn't fooling her one bit. "You got lost, didn't you? We were supposed to be at the hotel _hours_ ago."

"All right, I admit it. I give in without a fight. I'm lost. I think the directions at that last gas station were wrong," Jeff said. "There was that stupid little trading post a couple of miles back—as soon as I can find a place, I'll turn around. Maybe we can get a room there."

Melanie looked at him, amused. "It wasn't a trading post, you know. There were actual _houses_. People _live_ there."

"It's close enough," Jeff said uncharitably. He focused on the road again, keeping an eye out for anywhere that he could use to turn, the shadows still sending a little shiver down his back.

Then Melanie screamed, a high-pitched note of terror that rattled through the car, and Jeff slammed on the breaks, automatically thrusting a hand out to keep Melanie from bolting forward into the windshield. "Oh my god, oh my god!" Melanie shrieked, covering her face in her hands. "Jeff, did you hear—— did you see that? Did you see?"

"What?" Jeff asked frantically. He looked out the window, squinting toward the darkness of the woods around it. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but Melanie wasn't the type of girl to scream like that over nothing. "What was it?"

Melanie dropped her hands from her face, pressing them against the glass of her window instead as she looked out. "There was this—this lady, I think, and she was screaming. She was pointing, and her fingers were—" Melanie shuddered violently. "You really didn't see it?"

Jeff shook his head. "I didn't see anything, hon. Just the road. Are you sure it wasn't a nightmare?"

Melanie was already shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. "No, I was awake. I was _talking_ to you, for God's sake."

"You've talked to me in your sleep before," he said gently.

Melanie looked at him skeptically. "After I've _opened my eyes_?"

Jeff didn't have an answer to that, because the truth was that she never had. He sighed. "At any rate, do you still see it?" Melanie shook her head. "Then it's gone now, whatever it was. I'm turning here—we'll get a place to sleep at the trading post town and start again tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay." Melanie nodded and rested back against her seat again, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. "I can't believe you didn't see it. It scared the hell out of me."

"Hey, you _screaming_ scared the hell out of _me_ , okay? I think that makes us even." Jeff stopped the car and looked carefully up and down the empty road before doing a tight U turn. They started down the road again; Melanie carefully avoided looking in the direction where she had apparently seen the woman, huddling into herself anxiously.

"You're really freaked by whatever you saw, aren't you?" Jeff asked.

"Yeah," Melanie agreed immediately. "I feel like somebody's walked over my grave."

"Well, that's just silly," Jeff said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "You don't have a grave!"

Melanie rolled her eyes, tension bleeding out of her a little. "Oh, that was so witty it hurt." Melanie reached over to turn the radio on, switching it to one of her fluffy pop stations, and Jeff let her, hoping it would help her calm down.

It happened in a second as Melanie was leaning over to play with the stations—one blink, and there was a woman by the side of the road, with wild white hair and washed out, pale skin. Her mouth was open in what might have been a scream, but Jeff didn't hear anything from inside the car. The woman pointed at Melanie until they flew past, mouth open wide and soundless.

Melanie bounced up a little as when she found a song that she liked, and shot him an embarrassed smile. "You're right. I think I must have just dreamed it. I can't believe I let something stupid like that get to me."

Jeff nodded, his mouth dry, and stayed silent.

~*~

They made it safely to the little city (and Melanie was right, it _was_ actually more than a trade store, even if not by much) and got a small room at the only hotel. It was quaint, a little rustic, run by a little Irish lady with a thick accent and a warm smile.

By the time they got settled into their room, both Jeff and Melanie were calmer, reassured by the dual comforts of a place to sleep and the promise of a hot shower. Jeff let Melanie go into the bathroom first and kicked off his shoes, flopping onto the bed. It was covered with an actual duvet, and Jeff laughed, patting it a little as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was surprised to discover that he'd apparently fallen asleep, for an hour and a half or so, if the clock was to be believed. He indulged in a luxurious stretch. "Melanie?" Jeff sat up and looked around the small room, curious when she didn't respond. The light was on in the bathroom, and there was the sound of the shower running. "Melanie?" He wandered sleepily over to the bathroom, scratching at the itchy line of his pants as he prodded the door. "I have to—" Jeff's voice stuck stubbornly in his throat as the door swung slowly open, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head once before opening them again.

The water was running, and had been for a while, if one were to judge by the water temperature of the cold beads as they flicked him with their droplets, but Jeff barely felt them, frozen to the spot by the dark pool of crimson staining the tile of the bathroom, Melanie's eyes staring sightlessly up toward the ceiling.

Jeff began to scream and couldn't stop.

~*~

The road was nothing but gravel beneath the Impala's tires, and Dean swore at the sound of pebbles striking against the undercarriage, craning his head out the window to stare balefully at the ground.

"I'm sorry, baby," Dean crooned, stroking the dashboard of the Impala soothingly. "We'll get this job done, and then we'll take you in for a full check up, I promise." Dean saw Sam's expression squinch up from the corner of his eye and turned a full scowl in his brother's direction. "You got something to say, Sammy?"

Sam just shook his head, a smile twisting the corners of his mouth. "Nothing, Dean."

Dean gave him a suspicious look but shrugged after a minute, letting it go. "So, wanna run by me again what's so weird out here in Nowhere, Iowa?"

It was Sam's turn to glare at Dean this time, and he settled back more comfortably into his seat. "Weren't you listening to me oh, I don't know, at any point during this _entire_ trip?"

You were talking?" Dean asked in surprise and shot a mischievous look in his brother's direction. He tapped the edge of the Impala's window gently, stroking a finger along the rubber sealing of the window.

"Do you guys need a room?" Sam asked pointedly. "Because I can walk, if you need some quality time."

"Don't listen to him, baby," Dean whispered. "He's just jealous because you love me best." The Impala's engine revved in what could have possibly been agreement, and Dean laughed at Sam's expression.

"Lighten up on the gas, will you? It's not cheap," came Sam's peevish response, and Dean looked over at him curiously. Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Were you serious when you said you weren't listening to me at all?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, I'm just messing with you. Having fun, you know?"

Sam snorted and shook his shaggy head, pulling the journal from the glove compartment and opening it up to flip through the pages, looking for any information he might have missed the first time around.

"Anyway," Sam said, "I want to say it might be another Woman in White, but it doesn't seem to fit right."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked. " _Now_ you're having doubts about the case? When you got that call, you seemed pretty serious. According to your friend, there's been something strange going on. We have sightings of a woman in a white dress—people are dying. It seems like a pretty clear-cut case, right?"

"That's true, but I've been looking at the local history, and it doesn't seem like there's any basis for it. There are a couple of suicides, a couple of murders here and there over the years, but nothing tragic enough to warrant the kind of hostility that a Woman in White usually has. Not to mention, the victims don't have anything in common—"

"You're just looking for a mystery, aren't you?" Dean asked, his voice just fond enough to take the sting out of his words. "Maybe it's just going to be a nice and simple salt and burn. A little monster hunting vacation."

"Maybe." Sam didn't sound convinced and continued to flip thoughtfully through the pages of the journal.

"Well," Dean said, and pulled up to the local diner with a final clink of rock against the underside of the Impala. "First thing's first. Everywhere has got pie. And where there's pie, there's gossip. What's our cover this time?"

"Reporters?" Sam hazarded, and then shook his head. "No, there'd be no reason for it. With no connection to the victims, this is something that would be on the local paper, not high profile enough for anywhere else."

"Ah, we'll just be tourists and play it by ear," Dean decided and opened the door, swinging his feet out to the ground. He shut the door and looked around, noting the shabby little diner and the four way intersection that made the main street of the town. He'd been up and down the roads of the United States thousands of times, and it never failed to amaze him how many tiny, insignificant little communities were still around. It was both a little awesome and a little creepy, really.

They made their way up to the diner door, and Sam pulled it open, letting Dean slip in before him. It was a diner like a thousand other diners they'd been in before—red padded stools up at the bar, red and white checkered tile floors, a throw back to '50s interior complete with a bored blonde waitress in orthopedic shoes leaning against the counter and popping gum loudly.

Dean gave her his brightest smile anyway, out of habit, and eased into the closest booth, looking hungrily at the daily special written on the whiteboard next to the entrance of the kitchen.

The waitress sauntered over to them and gave them a grin, briskly wiping her hands on her apron. "What can I get you boys?" she asked.

Dean looked away from the daily specials (they were all so promising, full of artery-clogging yumminess) and gave her a nod, taking a look at her name tag. "Hi, Phyllis. My buddy here wants some coffee." He leaned toward her conspiratorially, while Sam looked at him with something that might have been called fondness. Dean tried to ignore it, for Sammy's sake. The guy was already a walking chick flick—he didn't need it advertised. Besides, it was always a good idea to keep the best mocking material as an ace for a later date. You never knew when you had to humiliate your little brother. "What _I_ really want to know is what kind of pie you've got here."

Phyllis gave him a look that was both a little amused and a little exasperated, and tapped her pen against her note pad. "We have just about any that you can think of, honey."

"You got strawberry rhubarb?" Dean asked hopefully, and kicked Sam in the shin beneath the table when Sam mouthed _strawberry rhubarb?_ at him disbelievingly.

Phyllis laughed. "Sure do." She didn't bother to write down his order and turned to Sam. "What about you?"

Sam gave her a grin. "Coffee's fine for me, thanks." Phyllis nodded briskly and turned to go into the kitchen to get their order in. Dean took a minute to look around the diner, trying to scope out the regulars. It was a little more difficult (or perhaps easier) than he'd anticipated, because in a town this small, they were all regulars. Sam and Dean seemed to be the only strangers in the place, if the curious looks being cast their way were any indication.

Phyllis slid Dean's pie and their coffee onto the table in a practiced move and then dropped a handful of creamer containers next to their cups. "Sugar's over there." She gestured next to the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, to a small ceramic container that contained a full complement of sugar packets. Dean gave her another smile in thanks and turned to Sam as Phyllis walked back over to her place at the corner of the counter.

Dean turned the grin onto Sam and lounged in his seat, swinging an arm over the back of the booth. "You'd think we were movie stars, the way that people are looking at us," he said, jerking his head to indicate the stares that were starting to lose their subtlety. That was being kind, of course, by assuming that there had been some sort of subtlety in the first place.

A man in jeans and a plaid shirt stalked through the door; this wouldn't have been really all that interesting by itself, but the way that the attention shifted from Sam and Dean to the newcomer piqued their interest.

Phyllis caught sight of the guy as he sat at the bar, and her expression morphed from boredom to an achy sort of sympathy, and she brought him a mug and filled his coffee without hesitation. "You're back here again, honey?"

The man jerked a short nod and wrapped his hands around the cup. "Yeah."

Phyllis shook her head, a slow, sad movement, and patted him on the shoulder. "I wish we knew about that lady you keep talking about. It was horrible, what happened. I think Aoife still has nightmares about it, poor woman."

Dean paused his shameless eavesdropping to shoot Sam a look, and nodded toward the pair, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in the same way it did whenever there was a clue to a hunt. Sam nodded in silent agreement, eyes narrow with curiosity. "It's probably nothing," Sam said in undertone. "With our luck, he's probably the town drunk."

Dean shrugged. "Hey, she said it was a lady, right? It's as good a place to start as any."

They laid low for a little while, savoring the coffee and the small town atmosphere that was so very easy to get used to in this job, left money for the food and a hefty tip and headed out of the diner.

Sam frowned thoughtfully as they headed back to the Impala, but didn't say anything until they were safely in the car. "I wonder if there are any local legends around here. I didn't see anything on the internet, but Ainsworth is small enough that it might not catch the attention of … well, anyone."

"I don't think there's going to be a library with all of the local stories conveniently wrapped up for you, Sammy." Dean shook his head regretfully. "We're just going to have to do some good old, stakeout stalking until we catch a break. Or—there's really nothing here that we can do, and we go along our merry way in a couple of days with a little more sleep. Either way sounds good to me."

Sam remained silent, frowning as he tried to wrack his brain. Dean maneuvered the Impala out of the diner parking lot and drove down the road, looking around for a hotel where they could set up their base of operations. He only found one—the Shamrock Inn. It was just on this side of shabby, white paint flaking a little to reveal the plaster beneath, the shingles of the roof a little worn. Dean went to check in as Sam gathered their bags.

The woman behind the counter was small, old and delicate—the kind of lady that Dean always imagined probably had to cling to something in order to avoid being blown away in a stiff wind—with a kind smile. "How are you doing today, my boy?" she asked, and Dean couldn't help but give her an answering smile, surprised by the pleasantness of her Irish accent.

"Not much—me and my brother are taking a road trip. You know, travel the back roads and see the real U.S. before another semester of college," he rambled cheerfully, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"That's nice. It's always good to see the world, I think. So, do you need one room or two?" She was already flipping open her guestbook and running a finger down the list of available rooms. From what Dean could see, there were an awful lot of them.

"Just the one. Two queens." Dean allowed himself a self-deprecating smirk at the memory of Michael, that snarky little boy in Wisconsin, but the joke flew over the head of the old woman, who just nodded briskly and tapped her book.

"I have just the one," she said, and went over to her register, punching each number with a methodical thunk. "It'll be fifty-one eighteen."

"Sure," Dean said easily. "Do you take credit cards?" He reached into his wallet.

"We sure do!" She took it and stared at the name, pushing up her thick glasses as she squinted at the card. "Gregory Papadopolos?" she asked, her voice hesitant as she spoke the last few syllables.

Dean shot her a beaming smile. "That's me!" He pulled out the fake ID that went with the card and slid it across the counter toward her. "My granddad was Greek." He tossed his head at Sam as Sam came through the door, probably to see what was holding him up. That kid was so impatient sometimes. "We take after our mother."

"That's nice, dear," she said sweetly, and ran the card before handing it back to him and turning away to find the keys to their room.

"So, can I get the name of our wonderful hostess?" Dean asked, turning on a ridiculous amount of flattery in his tone. He could practically feel the weird look that Sam was leveling at the back of his head, but ignored it, leaning against the counter as the woman turned back with their keys.

"Aoife McAllister, at your service," she said, and tugged his receipt out of the machine and slid it over with a pen for his signature. "So what are you boys doing in Iowa? I'd have thought that college students like you would have gone to Florida for the beaches and the sun."

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam beat him. "That's our final destination, ma'am. Truth is, genius here," Sam patted Dean's shoulder, "got us lost. And this seems like a nice enough place, so we thought we'd take a break."

"Well, I can't say I'm unhappy about that, since lost tourists make up most of my business," Aoife laughed. She took the receipt and handed Dean the keys to their room. "I hope you boys enjoy your stay. Small towns have their own kind of charm."

"I'm sure we will," Dean said with a final grin. "You guys have great pie."

~*~

"Laying it on a bit thick in there, weren't you?" Sam asked once they were back in the Impala.

"I got her name, didn't I? That little old thing is the same woman they were talking about earlier, who still has nightmares, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "We could have gotten that just by asking her, you know."

"It's not nearly as much fun though, is it Sammy?"

They coasted along the side of the building keeping an eye out for their number. Sam shook his head as they pulled into the parking space in front of their room (or what would have been the front of their room if they hadn't been on the second floor) and got out as Dean killed the ignition, tugging the two duffle bags he had stuffed full of their things from the back seat. They climbed the stairs to their room and slid automatically into their normal routine, checking the windows and various little openings that all hotels had, for weaknesses. Dean came out of the bathroom (no windows there, would quite possibly be the most defensible room in the place if necessary) to find that Sam had claimed the bed closest to the door.

At least, that's what it looked like. Sam had left the room, probably to scope some more of the town quickly, but he'd tossed a duffle bag on that bed (Dean checked it quickly—sure enough, it was Sam's stuff) and placed Dean's things on the bed secured by the wall. It was both a little sweet and a little annoying that Sam felt like he had to be the first line of defense now, but Dean was going to do his best to break him of the habit. Yeah, he'd died, but he hadn't been the first to actually do that (and Dean very carefully kept his mind off of what it felt like when Sam had died in his arms) and he was back, with his own special guardian angel, even.

Dean grabbed Sam's stuff and tossed it onto the other bed, switching their positions, and settled down with a sigh, propping himself up with pillows as he pulled out his favorite guns and double-checked their condition.

Sam came through the door and stopped just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him quietly as he took in the backward bed arrangements. Dean gave him a challenging look, and Sam shrugged, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He grabbed his laptop from the table where he'd left it, sliding it to a more comfortable position as he took a chair. He flipped it open, and Dean looked back down at his weapons, testing the edge of one of his knives as the comforting sound of Sam's typing filled the room as background noise.

After about a half an hour of waiting, Dean quirked an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "So, anything interesting?"

Sam shook his head, tapping a button slowly as he read. "Like I said before, there have been a couple of murders, but nothing that's really unusual. Maybe it's not a Woman in White."

"What is it then?"

Sam shot Dean an annoyed look. "If I knew that, we'd already be out of here, hunting the thing."

Dean gave Sam an unrepentant grin, and grabbed the remote control, turning the television on and flipping through a couple of channels.

Sam closed his laptop with a sigh and stretched——his spine popped loudly enough that Dean could hear it from the bed, and he winced in sympathy. "I have to go to Washington," Sam finally said, and Dean frowned.

"The state?" Although he'd meant that seriously, it was a lot of fun to watch Sam's face squinch up into Pissy Bitchface Number Three.

"No, _Dean_." And wow, he'd gotten the whiny voice, too. He was batting a thousand tonight. "Washington, Iowa. The city we passed on the way here. Their records might be more comprehensive." He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it viciously. Dean swallowed a laugh as it puffed up, messier and goofier than ever. "I'm taking the—" At Dean's look, he stopped his sentence and began again, his face squinching into Pissy Bitchface Number Two. "May I _please_ take the Impala, you car-obsessed freak?"

Dean made a face at him, but dug the car keys out of his pocket to throw at Sam's head. "Be back by curfew," he griped, and then shouted at Sam's back as he left the room, "And treat her like a _lady_!"

After Sam was gone, the desire to slack off evaporated, and he tossed the remote control from hand to hand as he considered his options. Nothing unusual had happened recently, so it would be weird for him to be asking about local murders—of course, he was supposed to be a tourist, and it was freaky anyway in context. He didn't really want to take a nap, because only god knew what his dreams would be like when he did, and there really was nothing on television during the day time. Even Oprah was in the afternoon. He indulged in a stretch and turned the television off, and got to his feet. At worst, he should go and mingle with the everyday folk of the town, see if anyone acted suspiciously at best, or just become a familiar face around the place, which might make it easier in the long run if he and Sam did need to ask questions later.

Dean went outside into the sunlight, squinting at the light, and looked around. What was there to do in a place like this, really? They'd already gone to the diner, which seemed to be a pretty good hanging out place, but he didn't want to pull the sleazy card, which is what he would seem like without Sam there.

Dean sauntered carelessly down the streets, noting the lack of people. Then again, with a population under a thousand, most of the residents probably worked at one of the larger neighboring cities. There was a park, a couple of stores, a little corner grocery, a school, a couple of restaurants. Maybe he should have gone with Sam after all——he could have goofed off at the movies or something while Sam was researching.

But then he turned a corner, and there it was. A woman with wild, white hair; her mouth opened in a scream, and a second later it was piercing into his ears, sharp and almost as painful as the sound of Castiel's voice; she lifted a trembling finger to point at him as she screamed. Dean fell to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears, and just as soon as it began, the shrieking stopped. He felt more than heard the footsteps pounding the pavement behind him, his ears ringing, and someone placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Dean blinked up to find the man that he'd seen earlier in the diner, the man's brown eyes wide and hopeful. "What?" he croaked, and wasn't even sure if he'd spoken out loud.

"You did see that, right? I'm not the only one?" the man babbled hopefully, his fingers digging into Dean's shoulder. "Oh god, please tell me I'm not the only one. You saw it; it was pointing at you!"

"Dude, shut up!" Dean tried vainly to shake the ringing out of his ears. "Stop grabbing at me unless you have some aspirin!" Weirdly, the guy actually let him go to pat himself down, as if he were trying to see if he had painkillers on him. Dean staggered up to his feet and brushed off the knees of his jeans, checking to make sure he hadn't torn anything or that he hadn't accidentally gotten more dirt than necessary on his new jacket. "What is up with you?"

The man had the decency to look embarrassed, and yanked a hand through his scruffy brown hair. "I'm sorry if I freaked you out. My name's Jeff Wilson. And I've seen that thing," he pointed a thumb in the direction of where the ghostly-looking woman had been standing, "before."

"Great," Dean sighed, and then flipped open his cell phone, jabbing at the speed dial with his thumb. When Sam answered, Dean scowled at the ground and said, "You don't have to go to Washington. It's not a Woman in White."

~*~

Once Sam had made his way back, the three of them went to a different restaurant from the one Dean had originally picked, just for the convenience of a little anonymity, and the boys found themselves staring at Jeff Wilson, who was looking at them with a vibrant, undisguised hope in his eyes.

"So, what's your story, Jeff?" Dean asked, lounging comfortably back into his seat. Sam decided to lean his elbows on the table in front of them, fixing Jeff with an intent look.

"It's pretty simple," Jeff started, toying with the straw paper from his drink. His eyes remained fixed on the warped wooden table between them. "I was a tourist, like you guys—"

"We're not actually tourists," Sam revealed softly, keeping his eyes on Jeff.

If possible, Jeff got even more hopeful. "Are you—-are you _those_ kinds of people?"

Dean shared a confused look with Sam. " _What_ kind of people, Jeff?"

Jeff waved a hand. "You know."

"Gay?" Sam ventured. Dean rolled his eyes and kicked Sam in the back of the leg.

Jeff's forehead creased in confusion, and he made another hand gesture. "You know. _Hunters_."

Dean gave him a disbelieving look. "You know about hunters?"

Jeff looked a little sheepish. "Well, I don't really _know_ —I've never met any before, but I've heard of people who help in this kind of situation, people who have been helped have mentioned things here and there. And he," Jeff jerked his head in Dean's direction, "he didn't react like anyone who's never seen this kind of thing before." Sam nodded, and Jeff continued quietly. "Anyway, I was passing through here a couple of years ago with my wife, Melanie. And we saw this … thing. The same thing that you saw, a little north of here. I did a U turn and came back here because she was so freaked, got a room here at the hotel in town. It's not the same one that's there now—the original one was torn down two years ago, to make way for the Shamrock that Aoife runs now. And Melanie, she," Jeff swallowed. "She had an accident in the bathroom. She fell. And I've never been able to shake the feeling that that thing was somehow responsible."

Sam looked between Dean and Jeff, waiting for more information, but Dean just shrugged, and Jeff seemed exhausted by the little he'd said about his wife. "So what did it look like?"

"It was a woman wearing really pale, tattered clothing," Jeff said.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Her hair was really light, too. She screamed at me." He closed his eyes, forehead furrowed in concentration as he tried to bring back the details. "Her hands were really bony. Her voice sounded like … like nails on a chalkboard times a thousand."

"Does it really?" Jeff asked, sounding almost unwilling to ask that but doing it anyway. "I've never heard it myself."

"Yeah," Dean said, and nodded his head firmly. "It sounded like—" _Like angels_ , he wanted to finish, but just shook his head instead.

"It was a screaming spirit," Sam said slowly, his voice flat, and Dean shot him a narrow look.

"Yeah. You got any ideas swimming in that brain of yours, Sammy?"

"It sounds like a banshee," Sam said, and rolled his eyes when both Dean and Jeff gave him a blank look.

"Like the drink?" Dean said with a grin.

Sam snorted. "And you think _you're_ the smart one? No, Dean. A banshee is an Irish fairy that foretells the—" Sam stopped and turned in the booth so that he was looking at Dean head on. "It screamed at _you_?"

Dean nodded. "No doubt about it. Jeff and I were the only ones that saw it, but I heard it scream. It was definitely pointing at me."

"Dean," Sam said urgently, "a banshee only shows up when someone is going to die."

Dean dropped his head against the top slope of the booth and stared up at the ceiling. "So, I'm going to die? It must be Tuesday."

"What are we going to do about it, then?" Jeff asked.

Dean scratched the back of his head and looked at Sam. "Yeah, Sam. What are we going to do about it?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted, and gestured for the journal.

Dean reached into his jacket, and then paused, looking pointedly at Jeff.

"What?" Jeff asked, bewildered.

"I don't wanna say I don't trust you," Dean drawled, "but I don't trust you. Unless you've got something else to add, this is a two man gig."

"But——" Jeff protested. "My _wife_ was _killed_ by one of those things! I want to get in on this. I want to help!"

"Listen," Dean said, "I understand. I get it, I really do. But this stuff is dangerous. We can't watch out for you and do our job at the same time."

"I was in the Army," Jeff said mulishly. "It's not like I'm dead weight."

"That's cool," Sam said before Dean could open his mouth again. "And if you can help us, believe me, we'll let you know. Here, give me your cell number." Sam made a show of typing the numbers in carefully, and saved it under Jeff's name, then turned the phone towards Jeff to show him that he was officially in the list of contacts. "If we need your help, we'll call. Seriously. The best thing that you can do for us is go to Washington and look up banshees for us. Anything you can find. I'll be looking online, but sometimes the best information you can get is in the books. Okay?"

Jeff still looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded instead, and slid out of his side of the booth. "I guess I better get on it, then."

"Thanks," Sam said, and he and Dean also got ready to leave, following Jeff out into the parking lot of the restaurant. They parted ways, Jeff going to his Honda, when the banshee's scream cut through the air again, louder, more insistent than before, and Dean's knees gave out almost instantly. He would have fallen if not for Sam's quick reflexes, and he trembled in Sam's grip. When it finally stopped, Dean opened bleary eyes that he hadn't even realized that he closed to see a dozen blurry figures by the Impala. He blinked, trying to raise a hand to rub at his eyes, and when his vision cleared, the banshee had already vanished.

"Holy crap," Jeff said.

"What happened? Did you see it, Sam?" Dean asked, trying to get his balance back. He felt a handkerchief press against the side of his face, and Sam sighed.

"I saw them."

Dean took the handkerchief from Sam's hand and wiped the side of his face himself, pulling the cloth back to see blood staining the fabric. Damned supernatural freaks and his damned rupturing eardrums. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up deaf. Once his head stopped ringing, he caught up with what Sam had said.

"What do you mean, _them_?"

The expression on Sam's face was tight. "There were six, Dean. I saw _six_."

~*~

Once Jeff was safely out of the way and heading toward the library of Washington, Sam threw himself into his online searching, occasionally snagging the cell phone to make a call to one of their contacts, while Dean lay on the bed and contemplated closing his eyes and going to sleep for once, when he wasn't completely driven to the ground by exhaustion.

Just as he was about to slide under, Sam pointedly cleared his throat, and then didn't make another sound until Dean had opened an eye to see what he wanted. "What?" Dean asked, and propped himself up a little more on his elbows. "Did you find a way to kill it?"

Sam shook his head, but he still looked like he was holding something back, so Dean stared at him, waiting him out. "I did find something interesting, though."

"Yeah?" Dean prompted. "And?"

"And, like I said before, banshees are an Irish fairy … Their duty is to foretell the death of a man or woman with their screams. Actual women have taken up their role as well. They were called keeners."

"Yeah?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "And?"

" _And_ they don't actually cause anything. They're just messengers."

"So, what are you telling me? Don't hate the player, hate the game?"

"Well, not exactly, but … yeah."

"Great." Dean rubbed his hands together roughly and bounced off the bed. "Well, I better get myself some more pie before it's too late."

" _Dean_!" Sam snapped, and he ran a hand through his hair.

"Hey," Dean said uneasily, shoving his hands into his jeans. "Sam."

"I just don't _get_ you, Dean," Sam burst out in frustration. "You just came back from hell—you really don't care if you're just going to _die_ again?"

"What do you expect me to do?" Dean asked him. "Do we have a way to stop the banshees? Do we have any way to find out what they're screaming about?"

"I—" Sam swallowed and deflated. "No."

"How about this?" Dean scratched his head. "Do we know why so _many_ of them were screaming at me?"

"Actually—" Sam dragged the journal to his side and flipped it to a page in the back, following their father's scrawl with an impatient finger. "I did read something online that is corroborated by Dad. It seems when someone important, or holy, is about to pass on, the banshees tend to gather around him. Like it's an honor."

"Huh." Dean tilted his head. "So why are they freaking out over me?"

Sam looked like he wanted to hit Dean for a second but took a deep breath instead. "You were pulled from hell by an angel, Dean. Maybe they figure that's holy enough?"

Dean snorted. "Shows how much they know. Stupid fairies." He wandered toward the door, and then turned back to Sam. "If it happens, it happens, Sammy. Maybe it won't even happen here! Maybe it'll happen when we're fighting our next ghost, or our next zombie, or our next whatever the hell goes bump in the night loud enough to get hunted. I'm not scared of it. I've already seen the worst that death could possibly threaten me with." He shrugged, avoiding Sam's eyes. "But fine, I get your other point. I've already had pie today—no need to get greedy. I'm going to go get a coke. Want anything?" Sam opened his mouth, and Dean quickly clarified, "From the vending machine?" Sam shook his head.

"Okay then," Dean sighed, and headed out the door and down the stairs to the first floor vending machine.

When he came back, he heard Sam talking to someone as the door came open, heard something like, "I thought you might know something—it's _Dean_ —fine, whatever. Maybe. It depends. Bye." Dean quirked his eyebrow at Sam curiously, but Sam just shrugged and turned back to his computer.

"Who was that?" Dean asked when it became obvious that Sam wasn't going to offer up any information voluntarily.

Sam shook his head. "Just a source. I was hoping she would have a lead, but it didn't pan out."

"That sucks," Dean said sincerely and turned on the television. It was about time for Oprah, anyway.

~*~

Jeff didn't find anything new at the library, which Dean had expected anyway. If it couldn't be found by Bobby or Sam, there was no way in hell that a newbie banshee hunter was going to find crap, although it was nice enough to know he took the search seriously. But now that he was back in town, he still wanted to be part of the Winchester hunt, and that was driving Dean nuts. Even worse was the fact that they had to convince him that the banshees hadn't been responsible for his wife's death, and that it was a legitimate accident.

He didn't believe them. Dean wasn't surprised by that either.

"Jeff," Sam said, and it was always Sam trying to convince people that they were telling the truth. Most of the time, Dean didn't give a flip. Just do the job and move on, that was his motto. "We've researched every bit of lore we can find about banshees. You were just researching them yourself. There's nothing that says a banshee is directly related to or responsible for the deaths they foretell. There's no way to kill them. They just exist."

Jeff shook his head stubbornly. "That's not the entire truth. They've always managed to defeat the Silver Banshee before!"

Dean frowned, looking at Sam for a translation. Sam looked equally as baffled and shrugged his shoulders in a reply to Dean's silent question. And then Dean got it.

"Dude, that's a _comic_ book!" He couldn't help the snarl that escaped, and Jeff looked at him defiantly. Dean threw up his hands and stalked about the room. "I give up. You're a _moron_. Comic books are _not_ a valid form of research!"

"You told me to look at anything that had banshees in it!" Jeff protested, and Sam stood quickly at the sight of Dean's murderous expression, placing himself between them and raising his hands to calm Dean down.

Dean turned around and clenched his hands into fists, counting to ten and taking a deep breath. When he had himself back in hand, he turned back. "You're right. We did say that. But I can guarantee that whatever you read in the comics doesn't matter. Sometimes on the independent publishers, you can get really, crazy lucky, but the main publishers, no. Just. No."

Jeff sighed. "I was really counting on you to help me."

"Sometimes," Sam told him, "there's nothing to help with. The banshee was the one trying to help you, by letting you know what was going to happen. It was ignorance and bad luck that killed Melanie, Jeff. I'm sorry."

Jeff shook his head, and when he looked at Dean and Sam, his eyes were dark with pain. "So I was just chasing this thing. That didn't have anything to do with—I can't understand that. I just. I can't." Jeff stood and strode out of the room.

Dean shook his head. "He's going to do something stupid, isn't he?" he asked despite himself, hoping that Sam would give him an answer he wasn't expecting.

"Yeah, I think so," Sam said, and Dean sighed, already heading toward the door to follow Jeff. He moved pretty fast, already almost finished going down the stairs, and Dean pounded after him, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up.

He saw, with the sort of stomach sinking certainty that had always accompanied his flashes of insight when something horrible was about to happen, exactly how it was going to go down. From his slightly higher vantage point, he saw Jeff going down the stairs, and how his car was parked just across the street; also, he could see the truck had pulled out from the gas station gaining speed, and Dean couldn't believe it, how he was going to die again saving a moron that was too much of an idiot to look both ways before crossing the street.

"Jeff!" Dean shouted, trying to warn him as he sped up.

Jeff apparently heard him, _stopped where he was_ and looked back at Dean. That's when he saw the truck barreling toward him, frozen like a deer in the headlights, and then Dean shoved him out of the way, and he heard brakes squealing as the driver realized he'd been going way too fast—and then there was a hand curled around the collar of Dean's jacket; he was yanked backward into the warm circle of someone's arms with barely a second to spare. He felt the wind of the vehicle as it passed an inch from where he was, and there was the smell of burning rubber rising up from the abused tires.

Dean flailed out, nearly falling over, but his rescuer's arms were solid around him, and that stability allowed him to catch his balance again as well as his breath. "Thanks for coming after me—" he began, thinking that it was Sam, and then he noticed the light-colored trench coat swirling about him. He twisted around to stare at Castiel, who just tilted his head and gave him a piercing look, his arms still around Dean in a tight grip.

"Dean!" And there was Sam, scarcely out of breath and skidding to a stop next to them. Then, to Castiel, "Thanks, mister, my brother's _crazy_ —" Castiel turned his head to look at Sam, quiet and stern, and Sam stuttered to a stop.

"This is becoming a habit of yours." Dean grinned, interrupting Sam's confusion and drawing Castiel's gaze back to him. "Is this what you do, now?" Dean stepped away from Castiel, and Castiel obediently dropped his arms.

"The _bean sidhe_ cried a warning for you," Castiel said, his voice faintly disapproving. "Whereas you refused to heed it, I did not."

"Yeah, yeah, judge me later," Dean snapped.

"I did not intend to judge you, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, voice still soft, quiet and firm. "I intended to point out your carelessness."

"Wait. Who are you?" Sam interrupted, eyes darting back and forth between Castiel and Dean, and Dean lowered his head in embarrassment, wondering why he hadn't introduced them in the first place.

"Sam?" Dean's eyes remained firmly on the ground, even as he tilted his head toward Castiel. "This is Castiel."

" _Castiel_? This is—Dean, is this—?" Sam sputtered, and Dean shot him a look.

Castiel nodded a greeting, either polite enough or disinterested enough to ignore Sam's ridiculous dolphin noises. "Samuel."

"This is _amazing_ —I have so many questions," Sam babbled, and Dean winced, bringing up a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off his impending headache.

There was the slamming of a door, and a loud, pissed-off voice shouted, "Can someone tell me _what_ the _hell_ is going on here?" Dean and Sam looked at the angry truck driver, red faced and looking mad enough to spit nails, and when Dean turned back to look at Castiel on instinct, he already knew that Castiel had gone.

"Hey, where'd he go?" Sam asked, like an echo of Dean's thoughts.

Dean shrugged. "He's always like this. Angels are such drama queens. Come on, we better get this thing taken care of before the crazy truck driver rips Jeff a new one."

"At least now he can't say that we couldn't do anything to help him out," Sam agreed. Dean grinned and looked both ways down the street before joining the crowd, trying to diffuse what could have been a much, much worse situation.

~*~

 _Hooks were ripping into his shoulders, tearing the muscle little by little. It was pain, despair, hopelessness. It went on forever. They stripped his flesh from his bones in long, slow flanks; fire roasted and snow froze and lightning sizzled all around him. It was all pointless. It was all brought on by the choices that he made, and even now he couldn't regret it._

He couldn't regret it.

And they spoke to him, with metaphorically split tongues and too many bitter words to swallow, about how his sacrifice was pathetic, unworthy, unmourned, and even now he had lost his brother to the darkness. Why hope when Sam was even further, even more lost than he had ever been?

Lilith was there sometimes (all the time, never, endlessly) and she took the softest, most sensitive parts of him and pulled them out delicately, like a surgeon, so very adept with her scalpel, pulled him apart strand by strand, heartbeat by heartbeat, until.

Until there was nothing left but hate and pain and betrayal.

Dean bolted up from his bed with a gasp, his heart hammering away in his chest, his forehead slick with a cold sweat. His chest heaved with every breath, and he jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if the aching pressure would drive the images and feelings out of his mind.

He shook his head violently and headed toward the bathroom, splashed cold water everywhere, over his head and the back of his neck. He couldn't resist staring at himself in the mirror, surprised as always that there weren't any marks on him. Any marks but one, and he raised a hand to press over his shoulder, over his shirt, covering Castiel's handprint. It was all so crazy.

Dean didn't realize that he was waiting for Sam to pop up in the doorway, to give him a concerned look and ask how he was feeling until minutes passed and Sam hadn't shown up. Dean went out of the bathroom and back into the darkened hotel room. There was a light on somewhere close by because it illuminated the room just bright enough to note the stark cleanliness of the room itself and the immaculate folds of Sam's bed.

Sam was nowhere to be seen.

Dean rubbed his eyes again, still too shaken from his dream to wonder after it. He dropped his arm with the huff of a sigh, and then inhaled abruptly when he saw Castiel leaning against one of the chairs by the window. The startled mouthful of air erupted into coughing, and Dean bent over, trying to catch his breath.

"Don't _do_ that!" Dean snapped when he felt closer to normal, and he glared at Castiel.

Castiel stared back at him, unperturbed. "The dreams still disturb you." The intonation in his voice made it clear it was a statement, not a question.

"I don't want to talk about it," Dean said and sat down on his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle between his legs. Castiel remained silent, but Dean could feel Castiel's eyes burning into him. "What did you want?"

"You shouldn't be alone." Castiel looked out the window.

"So it's better to stalk sleeping people?" Dean demanded. "Is this what you do for fun?"

Castiel looked back at him, eyes dark and probing. "I don't understand."

"Forget it," Dean said, shaking his head.

They remained like that, Castiel silent by the window, Dean unmoving on the bed.

"Aoife McAllister has an heirloom," Castiel finally said.

"Yeah? So?" Dean asked. "What about it? Let me guess—it's a seal, and you want me to take it from the old lady?"

Castiel frowned. "No." He took a couple of steps forward and balanced on the corner of Sam's bed, mirroring Dean's position. "It was a touchstone to her homeland, so that the _bean sidhe_ could find her immigrant family, whenever it was necessary, to announce a time for grief. There are no longer many to keen for."

"Is this a heavy- handed way of telling me something I'm supposed to care about?" Dean quipped. "Or are you just saying that the banshees are lonely, and that's why they're screaming after people?" Castiel didn't bother saying anything else; he sat there on Sam's bed and watched Dean until Dean's skin began to crawl, and he fidgeted in place anxiously. "Wait—that _is_ what you're telling me? So—what? They're just going to continue screaming at people and scaring them out of their wits? Maybe even causing the death they're wailing about?"

Castiel stared at him, and although his expression didn't change, Dean got the feeling he might be disappointed. "The _bean sidhe_ are not evil, Dean. They simply are. Would you deny them their purpose?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "What am I even supposed to say to that, Cas?" The nickname tumbled out before Dean had realized that he was even going to say it, and he looked at Castiel, refusing to blush.

Castiel tilted his head, his forehead furrowed. "I wasn't aware that you had to say anything." Castiel stood, looking down at Dean contemplatively. "You should rest. You have long days ahead of you."

Dean shuddered, memories of hooks and despair and hatred flickering through his mind, and he shook his head. "No, thanks."

"There is no need to fear," Castiel said, his voice soft and, although Dean would never say it, incredibly reassuring. "Trust me and sleep." Dean stared warily up at Castiel, and then obediently let his eyes flutter closed. Castiel's fingers touched his forehead.

When Dean opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the window of the room. He was covered in his jacket, and when he sat up, he found his shoes placed carefully next to his bed. The door to the room creaked open, and Dean looked to find Sam walking through the door, burdened with a drink holder with two cups of coffee and a bag that smelled really good in that fantastically awful way that terrible breakfast fast food can smell, and Dean's stomach growled, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he had to have it, all of it, and right now.

"Hey, you're awake," Sam said, and Dean lunged off the bed, enviously eyeing the bag of food that Sam was holding.

"Food, Sammy," Dean demanded, and Sam laughed, handing him the coffee as he dug through the bag for their breakfast.

"You're such a freak," Sam said, passing him a paper- wrapped sandwich. "Half an hour ago, you were sleeping like a log."

"I'm awake now," Dean said, annoyingly obvious, and eyed the sandwich in his hands. He wanted to ask _where were you last night?_ but instead, he unwrapped his sandwich and took a large bite, making an appreciative sound as he chewed.

"You're disgusting, you know that, right?" But Sam was laughing still, so Dean swallowed, taking a swig of coffee. Black, with just a touch of sugar. Perfect.

"Shut up before I eat _you_ , bitch," he told Sam affectionately, and jammed another section of sandwich into his mouth.

" _You_ shut up, before I stop bringing you breakfast, you jerk," came Sam's response, and Dean kept his smile to himself. He was just being paranoid and weirded out by his dreams. He trusted Sammy. If there was something important going on, he would tell him. Dean would just have to wait until then.


	2. Free Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's hands were clenched white on the steering wheel, and Dean was shaking his head. "First, that was sacrilege. Second," and his grip relaxed as he shot a challenging smirk in Sam's direction, "bring it, bitch."

The streets were dark and wet with rain; it was still drizzling off and on. Catherine Mendez shivered, pulling her coat more tightly around her, and flipped her collar up, trying to get a little more protection from the chill and dampness. The way home was usually very well lit, but for some reason, tonight, the street lights were flickering steadily, obstinately lighting the way and plunging her into darkness with every step. The hollow sound of her footsteps against the pavement was the only thing she heard, and she felt the urge to hold her breath.

She laughed a little at herself, quickening her pace. It was ridiculous. She'd been walking back and forth in this part of town for years; it was silly to let a creepy, rainy night scare her out of her wits.

She made it to her vehicle without any problems, but the street light that she had parked next to was doing a valiant job of attempting to strobe her into seizure, so she held each of the keys on her keychain, remembering by feel which one she needed to unlock her door.

"Hey."

Catherine gasped, dropping her keys onto the pavement as she whirled around. It was Bradley, the Jones' son from down the street, and she glowered at him until he bent and picked up her keys, presenting them to her with a flourish.

Catherine snapped the keys out of his hand, still annoyed at him and not afraid to show it. "Hello, Brad. Is there any particular reason why you're out here tormenting poor unsuspecting folk minding their own business?"

"Sorry," Bradley said, and he did look sincere enough that Catherine relaxed. "I just saw you and thought I'd say hi."

"I'm sure." Catherine shivered again, crossing her arms over her chest and squeezing her arms. "And of course you thought it would be perfect to say Hello out in the rain instead of at our meeting tomorrow?"

"Yes," Bradley said and stepped closer.

Catherine licked her lips, backing up until she felt the handle of the car door dig into her back. "What is it, then?" Catherine's heart was already speeding up in excitement; she was flushing with a warmth that made the chilly drizzle against her skin a negligible sensation.

Bradley's eyes went black, and he leaned into her space, raising a finger to trace the curve of her cheek, the small cleft in her chin. This close, Catherine could see the strange jut of bones in his fingers, the sticky way his hair dangled in his face, the long stripes of red bleeding through his shirt. Still, when he brought those broken fingers up to tangle in her hair, she let him, leaning her head back to follow the pull. He trailed his split lips against the skin of her throat, up and down, before he pressed his body flush against hers, mouth against her ear.

"I want you next," Bradley confided.

Catherine laughed, a shaky, delighted sound, and she laid herself bare before him. "Yes," she breathed. "Please. Yes."

~*~

Sam looked up from the old, flaking book he was cradling in his hands to see Dean trying to balance a beer bottle on his forehead. " _Dude_ ," Sam said, astonished by his brother's complete stupidity. "What did you _do_ before I started hunting with you? Did you just wander around with your weapons and trip on things?"

"Hey." Dean removed the bottle from his forehead so that he could give Sam an impish look. "I can do my own research—I just figured, you like to do it so much, it would make me a bad big brother to deny you."

"Sometimes I really think I hate you." Sam glared at Dean, fighting the urge to hit him.

Dean's smarmy grin didn't waver. "Liar, you know you love me."

"Are you sure you boys are taking this hunting business seriously?" Bobby wandered away from his own desk piled with books to take Dean's bottle and toss it into the trash. "Because you're sounding like a bunch of five year olds."

"If he would pull his weight, maybe I wouldn't complain so much," Sam insisted to Bobby, mostly to hear Dean splutter. It happened on cue.

"I do pull my weight! Who's the one that kills these things you're researching? Ninety percent of the time, it's me!"

"By that logic, you should be doing at least ten percent of the research, shouldn't you?" Sam smirked at Dean.

Dean scowled at Sam and nabbed the smallest book in the pile before going to Bobby's living room to sulk in one of the chairs. Bobby shook his head, looking like he wanted to say something, but he remained silent, retreating back to his desk and the mounds of books and papers he could hide behind.

Sam heard the sound of the television being turned on in the living room and shook his head. He was kind of frustrated at Dean's attitude—the Apocalypse was coming, the actual frigging _Apocalypse_ , and he was alternately taking it too seriously and then not seriously enough. They needed to be prepared.

The television cut off abruptly, and Dean wandered back into Sam's and Bobby's vicinity, a frown creasing his forehead. He went over to the pile of old newspapers that Bobby kept around for research purposes and began to leaf through them silently, pausing every now and again to stare at a page before moving on. He methodically worked his way through every pile, single minded enough that he caught Bobby's attention, and both Bobby and Sam stared at Dean, wondering what he was up to now.

Then Dean's expression brightened and he brought four of the newspapers over to Sam, laying the pages out over his books. "What do you see, Sammy?"

Sam shot a look at Dean and then looked down at the newspapers strewn around the table. "Expired newspapers? What am I supposed to be looking for, Dean?"

Dean sighed in exasperation, turning to Bobby. "Bobby, come on, man, help me out here."

"I don't know what's going on in that fool brain of yours!" Bobby protested but came out from behind his books to take a look at the newspapers Dean had selected. "These newspapers are months old, Dean."

"That's the point!" Dean insisted.

Bobby continued to look, ignoring Dean's outburst, and tapped each page. "The only thing I can see here are the abductions. That what you're thinking about?" Sam took a closer look at the articles that Bobby pointed out, scanning over the headlines.

"It's not just that," Dean said. "I turned on the television, and I was watching the Travel Channel, you know?" Dean scowled at the amused look Sam turned on him. "Shut it, Sammy. They have those haunted houses of America things. And they were talking about some new towns, ones that were thriving places two years ago but have dried up. Like, new ghost towns. I was thinking that it might have been that Roanoke virus thing—"

"Croatoan," Sam interjected.

"Whatever. But none of these places have any carvings like that. 'Course, it's possible that the reporters are just dumbasses and can't film their way out of a paper sack. But they're in the papers, too. I think we should check it out."

"So you think it's this virus thing showing back up again?" Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged. "Well, it's either that or the Rapture. But it started a little over a year and a half ago. Doesn't that strike you as a little funny?"

Sam nodded. "That's when the Hell Gate was opened. Okay. Let's get on it."

Dean gave Sam an insolent grin. "Didn't know I needed your permission, princess." He went to the closet and pulled out his jacket, shrugging it over his shoulders. "Besides, now you can't complain at me about research. Five minutes on the boob tube and I find us a hunt. How's that for turnaround?"

Sam shot a narrow glare in his direction. "I'm not convinced it _is_ a hunt yet, but it's worth checking out. Don't let it get to your head."

"Sammy, I'm crushed!" Dean said, giving him a wounded look. "How could you even think—"

"Get out of here, ya idjits," Bobby said, his gruffness waylaid by the obvious fondness in his voice. "Call me if anything turns up."

"Sure thing, Bobby," Dean said and headed out the door, leaving Sam to scramble, setting the books back in their places and grabbing his stuff before chasing after his brother.

Dean was waiting in the Impala by the time Sam was finished, tapping out the beat of 'Enter Sandman' against the dashboard and blaring it obnoxiously from the speakers. Sam shook his head for what felt like the millionth time since Dean had come back from Hell—Dean was in one of his I-am-the-annoying-older-brother moods, which always made him harder to keep in line than a toddler, with his teasing and pranking. Fortunately, Sam had made a preemptive strike.

Sam slid in the passenger seat just as the first song ended, so he had a front row seat to Dean's expression when it became The Lettermen's 'Put Your Head on my Shoulder.' Dean stared in mute horror at his cassette tape player as though it had personally betrayed him, and Sam couldn't help laughing hysterically, bracing his palms against the dashboard and choking out his mirth.

Dean's mouth worked soundlessly as the song transferred from 'Put Your Head on my Shoulder' to the theme song from Sesame Street, and then he bolted forward to push the eject button and fling that cassette tape into the back seat.

Sam eventually stopped laughing, wiping tears of hilarity out of his eyes, and when his vision cleared, he snuck in a look in Dean's direction. Dean's hands were clenched white on the steering wheel, and Dean was shaking his head. "First, that was _sacrilege_. Second," and his grip relaxed as he shot a challenging smirk in Sam's direction, "bring it, bitch."

Sam couldn't help laughing again, even though he knew he was in for an awful payback, and settled back into his seat, pulling his seatbelt around and clicking it safely into place. "Oh, I've _brought_ it, jerk."

They started their way toward the Omaha area, where the first of the 'haunted' towns began popping up, and Sam carefully marked all of the missing towns that Dean had already pointed out in the papers. Then he went to his laptop, snagging free wireless signals when they passed them, to hunt down any ghost towns that had appeared within the last two years.

"Wait," Sam said, halfway through their first day of driving, and Dean paused his drumming against the steering wheel in order to look at Sam curiously. "I don't think we need to go to Omaha first. If what I'm thinking is right, then the first dead town that showed up was Naselle, Washington."

Dean frowned. "That's a long ways away from the Hell Gate, Sammy."

Sam shrugged. "It was pretty far away from where those demons came after us in the police station, too, but that didn't stop them."

"Huh," Dean said, looking down the long stretch of road ahead of them. "Okay then. Washington it is."

They drove on in silence for a little while, and Sam played solitaire until the battery in his laptop beeped a low power warning. He breathed a sigh and shut the laptop down, sliding it into the back seat. Sam sighed again and propped his chin in his palm, staring out the window. He bounced his leg along with the music and wistfully wished that he could stick his iPod jack back in and listen to his own music again.

"Are you really bored already?" Dean asked incredulously, stealing a look at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "Dude, it's hard to keep entertained when you're the passenger."

Dean made a sound of agreement and they fell silent again for another few miles. Then, out of the blue, Dean smiled and said, "Do you remember when Dad was alive, all of the rides we took—"

"You mean, all the hunts we went on?" Sam interjected.

Dean continued without a pause, "—me singing along with the radio until Dad told me to shut up, you kicking your heels in the back asking 'where are we going?' and 'are we there yet?'"

Sam nodded. "I remember that being one of the few times we were allowed to act like kids. I kinda think Dad pretended a little too, sometimes. You know, like Mom was just wherever our destination happened to be—Minneapolis, Salt Lake City, Tulsa—that we'd just been gone a long time and Mom just happened to be waiting for us."

"Aw, Sammy, you're such a softy deep inside," Dean teased, and Sam scowled, annoyed at his brother's easy ability to bring up the memories and mock what they meant to him. He looked out the window again, a little surprised when Dean continued softly, "I never really felt that. Being on the road meant not having to suffer another stupid transfer from the old school to a new one. It was you behind me and Dad—" Dean laughed wryly and shook his head a little, keeping his eyes on the road. "Jeez, listen to me. And I call _you_ a walking chick flick."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing, you know, Dean?" Sam attempted to reassure, not at all used to hearing that nostalgic tone in Dean's voice.

Dean laughed, "You mean it's not a bad thing that you're a walking chick flick? I'm not sure I agree, Sammy."

"I _mean_ ," Sam said, exasperated, "it's not like there are really very many people we can talk to when we want to remember Dad, right?"

"Yeah, maybe," Dean said, but he didn't really seem inclined to say anything—not about their father or anything else. Sam looked out the window and tried desperately not to feel disappointed.

~*~

When they got to Naselle, Washington, the first thing they noticed was the absolute stillness. It wasn't quite the same feeling as that one town with the Croatoan virus, but it was still spooky. Lived in but empty, lives stopped in the middle of moving forward, motion in potential.

Sam and Dean wandered back and forth down the roads, pausing for a second here and there to search a post for any carvings dug deep into the wood; they knocked on doors and entered houses to look at the walls. The only thing they were able to ascertain was that it seemed like everyone really had just stopped whatever the hell they were doing at the time. There were some houses with meals set out on the dining room table, rotten and half eaten by bugs, half-drawn children's pictures, random bits and pieces of clothing lying where they were dropped.

Once Sam and Dean had decided that there wasn't really anything more sinister than a little emptiness, they split up, and Sam made his way through three more houses, looking sadly at the discarded toys and the still, musty air of disuse that seemed to hover over the entire town.

He crossed a browning lawn at a leisurely pace, moving from door to door. In the one recorded instance of the Croatoan demon virus he had witnessed, the carving seemed to be the first thing to show up. Naselle wasn't that large, so Sam was worried about the fact that they hadn't seen it yet. Dean popped his head out of an alley and waved vigorously—Sam waved back and gave his brother a thumbs up just to let him know he was doing all right.

Sam crossed the street and went into the next house, wrinkling his nose at the interior. There were ash trays strewn all over the floor, making the air acrid and bitter. He poked his head in to peek at the kitchen and didn't notice anything particularly interesting, just grimy white tile and dishes piled in the sink and left there.

The master bedroom was the same as a hundred different bedrooms he'd seen over his years of hunting, and a quick survey of the bathroom showed absolutely nothing but a lack of running water. He turned around to go back into the master bedroom and stumbled, catching himself on the door frame.

Ruby was sitting on the bed, leaning on her palms, her legs crossed. "How are you doing, Sam?"

"Ruby?" Sam darted a quick look right and left, as though he expected Dean to jump out of the closet any second. "What are you doing here?"

"I would've thought the better question would be what are _you_ doing here?" Ruby eased her way up, diffidently tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder. "Naselle, Washington, Sam? Didn't I tell you we weren't ready for this?"

Sam stared at her, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door frame. "Weren't ready for _what_ , Ruby? Because I really don't remember you mentioning anything about Naselle, Washington, or the fact that there's a trail of empty towns across the U.S."

"I'm talking about demons, Sam. This thing that you're following, this trail you've picked up? It's cold, and even if it were hot as hell, you aren't ready to handle it yet."

"So, what do you know about the Croatoan virus anyway?" Sam asked curiously, and Ruby arched an eyebrow.

"Is _that_ what you think this is?" Ruby propped her hands on her hips. "The Croatoan demon virus?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "That's our working theory," he said lamely, and Ruby scoffed. "I don't see you offering any advice."

"Would you even listen to me right now?" Ruby asked softly, and then took toward Sam. "You still haven't told Dean anything, have you? About your powers, or me."

"No," Sam said stubbornly. "I haven't. He doesn't need to know."

"What do you think you're getting by keeping him in the dark?" Ruby asked. "Is this some bizarre thing where you think you're protecting him? Because you're not. We are hunting _demons_ , Sam. If you think it's your _reputation_ keeping them from going after Dean, you're so wrong it's not even funny. Your brother's lucky he has an angel perching on his shoulder, or he'd be dead meat a hundred times over."

"Back off, Ruby!" Sam clenched his jaw, his eyes narrow, and Ruby subsided into a sulky silence, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting. "I'll tell Dean when I'm ready to do it, okay? You pushing me isn't going to get it done any faster." Sam huffed a breath and stood straight, pushing away from the doorway. "Now, if you're not going to help me, then I would suggest that you figure out what the next demon we're going to exorcise is. Okay? Can you do that for me, Ruby?"

Ruby rubbed a tired hand over her face. "Fine. I'm on the trail of someone right now. As for this?" Ruby raised a hand and spun around slowly, indicating the room, the house, or the whole town, "If you're thinking the demon virus did this, then you're wrong there, too."

"So you _do_ know what this is," Sam insisted. "What's going on here?"

Ruby laughed, wry and rough, giving him an annoyed look. "Fine, fine. I'll tell you what. The answers you're searching for sure aren't going to be here. The thing that did this? It's in Arizona. And pretty damn hard to miss. Have fun getting your asses handed to you, Sam." Ruby headed for the door.

"Don't let Dean see you leave," Sam called after her.

Ruby paused, shook her head ruefully, and continued out.

Sam followed but stopped in the living room, trying to think seriously about Ruby's suggestion. It wasn't that he actually meant to hide this from Dean for so long; it's just that one thing led to another, and every time he meant to sit them down and say _Dean, I lied, and I hope you can understand_ , he got stuck on Dean's hands on the steering wheel of the Impala, where they belonged, or his stupid laugh or how really _green_ his eyes could get, and how he'd forgotten so many details over the last four months, when he swore to himself that he would never, never forget. Dean's smile; his awful plaid shirts; how obsessed he was with classic rock; even how he _smelled_ , like sweat and gun powder and cheap hotel soap and _Dean_.

And Dean wouldn't understand what it was like to be a hunter without him, how hard every single day had been, and Sam knew he was whining; even in his own head his rationalizations sounded thin and pathetic, because while he had been living, his brother had been _dead_ and in _Hell_ , being tortured in ways that Sam probably couldn't even imagine.

But he was _saving_ a lot of people with his powers. Surely that accounted for something.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean's bellow jolted Sam out of his thoughts, and he obediently followed Dean's voice, down the front steps and into the yard. Dean was standing in the middle of the street, looking around with an annoyed look on his face. Dean would notice him when he turned around, so Sam took the moment to steal another look at his brother, his jacket and jeans and spiky hair, and affection swelled in his chest, warm and slow. "Sammy!" Dean paused and bellowed again, before he completed his circle. Sam felt a dopey smile creep across his face and tried to hide it, pressing his lips together tightly.

Dean scowled when he saw that Sam had been waiting right behind him. "Why didn't you answer me?" Dean asked crossly, and Sam shrugged.

"You looked like you were having fun," was his lame excuse, but then he tugged on his jacket and stepped closer. "So, what is it? Did you find anything?"

"No," Dean said, "and that's the biggest clue that maybe there's nothing here anymore. The EMF isn't picking anything up, and I feel like I've been in a hundred houses, and it's all just stuff that was left behind. What about you?"

Sam shook his head. "Just a lot of the same." Dean sighed loudly and began the way back to the Impala, Sam falling easily into step beside him. "And you didn't find the carving either?"

"Nope." The word was short and curt, but then Dean shrugged, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "But then, I wasn't really expecting anything to be in this town, except maybe the carving."

"Well," Sam said, considering what Ruby had told him. "Maybe it's not the demon virus. Maybe it's something else."

"Something else?" Dean cocked his head to the side, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Something that works like the virus, but isn't? Damn, that sucks."

"Yeah," Sam agreed softly. "It does."

"So, where do we try next?" Dean asked as the Impala came into view.

"I think Arizona," Sam said.

Dean gave him a curious look. "Arizona, huh?" Sam nodded. Dean waited and gave him a look, nodding his head as though that would help prod Sam to continue with his next words. " _Where_ in Arizona?"

Sam chewed on a hang nail and laid his other hand on the Impala's hood, touching it lightly. "I don't know yet. It's something that I'm working on." He opened his door and slid into the passenger seat, stretching his legs in the space beneath the dashboard, and waited for Dean to get into the driver's seat.

"There was a hotel in that place we passed—" Dean began.

Sam gave Dean an amused look. "'In that place we passed'. _That's_ coherent."

Dean waved his hand dismissively. "That town four or five miles back. Napkin or Nappy Time or whatever it was called?"

Sam blinked. "Knappton?"

Dean nodded. "That's the one."

Sam shook his head. "You are the dumbest person ever."

Dean scowled at Sam and cranked the Impala into gear. "What was it that I said about shotgun and his cake hole?"

Sam frowned, his forehead creasing deeply. "I thought that had to do with choosing the music!"

"Well now you know better! Shotgun shuts his cake hole, got it?"

Sam grinned. "Sorry, Dean, I didn't know you were so insecure about your intelligence!"

"Pushing it, Sammy!" Dean growled, and Sam's smile deepened.

"I missed you," Sam said, happily and sincerely. Dean gave him a wide, disbelieving look, and Sam flushed but shrugged, refusing to take it back.

"You were getting into their hooch, weren't you? That's why you were gone for so long!" Dean exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Sam's shoulder. "Dude, share!"

"Dude, I'm not drunk!" Sam said, shoving Dean back. "Just shut up and drive, will you?"

"Just saying, Sam," Dean admonished as they continued down the road. "You can't horde all the good stuff. You have to share, okay? It's a rule."

"That's crap!" Sam laughed. "You just made that up because you think I'm drinking on the job!"

Dean gave him a shrewd look so over the top that Sam couldn't help but laugh again. "I'm on to you, Sam. You think you've pulled the wool over my eyes, but I know what a little sneak you are."

"I'm not a sneak!" Sam protested, but Dean didn't hear or chose to pretend that he didn't hear him, deciding instead to crank the stereo up to ear shattering levels.

" _So_ ," Dean sang along with Pink Floyd as they flew down the road, long and empty and perfectly theirs, "' _So you think you can tell. Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain…_ '"

~*~

It was dark by the time they reached Knappton, Washington. Sam and Dean pulled up to the first hotel on the strip, and Dean, as always, went inside to pay for their room. Once that was taken care of, they went to their room, arguing good naturedly over which bed they were going to take, where they were going to go first for information (the conversation went like this:

"The menu says they have all sorts of pie!" Dean said.

"You had pie two days ago!" Sam insisted.

"Well, yeah, but that was _two days ago_. I'm going through withdrawal!"

"Dean, you're gorged on it," Sam laughed. "Why do you want more?"

Dean looked at him like he had just committed blasphemy and said, "Because it's _good_." He pounded his hands on the table and grinned widely at Sam. "The kind of good where the _Lord_ made _pie_ and decided it was _good_ , good,") and Sam had snagged the first shower.

He slouched his shoulders and ducked his head, letting the water sluice down his back. The water pressure wasn't great or all that hot, but that's what you got with a cheap hotel. It was better than it would have been after Dean had gotten through with the bathroom, at any rate.

That empty town had felt like it had crawled beneath his skin and left dirty marks on his soul, and Sam had no idea why it felt like that at all. He scrubbed at himself until the cheap hotel soap was gone, and then got out, stealing one of the towels to wrap around his hips before he strode out of the bath room to get his clothes.

Dean was laying on his bed, eyes closed and hands laced behind his back, so Sam grabbed his boxers and slid them on before he removed the towel, tossing it on his bed as he searched for a shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. They were going to have to do laundry soon, Sam noted as he pulled his shirt over his head and grabbed a pair of socks.

Once he was dressed, he folded the towel and set it on the sink counter, hoping it would dry out before Dean thought he would need to use it, and then looked at Dean, striding over to his bed to take a closer look, bending over as he tickled the tip of Dean's nose very carefully. Dean shook his head with a little snort, and he eyed Sam balefully as he snagged Sam's wrist.

"Dude," Dean said, voice annoyed, "what are you, five?"

"You're one to talk." Sam pulled his wrist from Dean's grasp. "You ready to go?"

Dean brightened automatically and rocked to his feet. "Am I ever! There's a little place about two blocks from here—I checked it out while you were taking forever in the shower, and they've got Wi-Fi."

"Cool." Sam scooped up his laptop without a thought, following Dean out the door. It was actually kind of funny, Sam decided, how so many towns looked exactly the same, with different names that related to its culture and its own particular pride. They found a seat in the restaurant, and the waiter took their drink orders before Sam let Dean look at the menus. Once Dean was occupied, Sam set his laptop on the table between them, taking it out of its power saver function and logging into the Wi-Fi.

"What do you want to get?" Dean asked.

Sam waved a hand at him. "Just order me something." He glanced at Dean over the top of his laptop screen. "Something _good_." Dean looked innocent, but Sam knew better and stared him down until Dean began to look at the menu again.

So. Ruby mentioned Arizona. Sam tapped his fingers on the table, staring at his desktop while he tried to figure out what to do. He'd already told Dean about it, so he couldn't completely keep Ruby's warning in mind to just not go there in the first place, but it wasn't like he was going in completely blind. They were just demons in the long run. And he had a lot more experience with dealing with them now. On the other hand, Ruby hadn't even mentioned them as a viable demon hunt. Was it something that _she_ was hiding, some ulterior motive causing her to steer Sam clear of the demons, or did she really believe they simply weren't ready for it? Again, he was with Dean, not Ruby, so he already felt a little more optimistic just having his brother by his side.

Sam noticed Dean giving him sly looks from beneath his ridiculously long, girly eyelashes, and Sam gave him another warning look as he brought up his bookmark menu. He had maps for all fifty states saved in there as well as the links for all of the newspapers that had a website of their own. Sam chose a newspaper published out of Flagstaff, the _Arizona Daily Sun_ , and clicked on the bookmark.

Immediately, loud moans and husky epithets spewed from his speakers, as loudly as the speakers could handle, and Sam blushed a horrible, angry red, hands flailing for the volume button as people looked around in shock and clapped their hands over their children's ears. On the screen, outlined in horrible yellows and vibrant purple flashing text was a woman and a horse, and _oh my god_. Sam slammed the laptop lid down, traumatized and breathing heavily as though he'd been running for miles.

Across from him, Dean leaned back in his chair and smirked his most smarmy, most disgustingly superior grin. "A little excited there, are you?"

Sam refused to give in to the bait and gave Dean his most unimpressed expression. "Changing my links to porn sites, Dean? That's _ancient_."

Dean's smile refused to go away. "It might be an oldie, Sammy, but it sure is a goodie."

Sam braved his laptop again, making sure his volume was turned all the way down before opening it, and he clicked through his links one by one. He shook his head in disgust. " _Every single one_? When did you even have time to _do_ this?"

Dean shrugged, long and slow and full of complete self satisfaction. "Magic."

"Ha ha. You're hilarious," Sam said, and began the painstaking process of re-marking all of the information on his browser. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on the circumstances, Sam had had so many laptops die in the service of hunting that the first thing he did whenever he got a new one was to create a file with all of the important information he might need, and he kept it consistently updated. So the link thing, while incredibly annoying, wasn't that important. Just time consuming. Damn Dean.

Ignoring his bookmarks for now, Sam pulled up Google and typed in the search for the newspaper, clicking on the first couple of articles in quick succession. There didn't seem to be anything incredibly unusual, at least, not unusual enough to be reported in the _Arizona Daily Sun_ , so Sam went to the next newspaper site, and the next. He was in the middle of reading through the fourth newspaper archive when their meals came, and Sam barely spared a look for it, pushing his laptop just enough so that he would have room for the meal.

He sipped at his drink and read a few more pages before he stumbled on it. Massive rolling blackouts in Bluewater when it appeared the rest of the state had had no problems with power whatsoever; even the power company was confused by it, because all of their sensors said that Bluewater's power was consistent and without any explanation for the fluctuations in the machinery. No cattle mutilations, but there seemed to be a recurring series of electrical storms in that general area, as well. Two out of three wasn't bad at all.

"Dude, are you going to eat that?" Dean asked, and Sam shoved a piece of toast into his mouth without looking, scrolling down a little to finish the article. Once he'd reached the end, he closed his laptop again and set it on the seat next to him, turning toward Dean and his lunch and giving them both his attention. Dean chewed on a sausage and arched an eyebrow at Sam. "Yeah?"

"It looks like for the last couple of days, the town of Bluewater has been suffering from blackouts. Might be a good place to start."

"Huh," Dean said and forked a bite of pancake into his mouth. "Cattle mutilations?"

"Nope." Sam shook his head. "But there _are_ electrical storms around the area."

Dean shrugged. "Good enough for me. Let's take a break here and start over there tomorrow."

"Fine with me," Sam agreed and turned his full attention to his meal.

~*~

Sam continued to research when they got back to the motel, despite the fact that Dean had found a horrible movie on the hotel television to play, but he couldn't really find anything that confirmed for him that these demons they were hunting now were any more peculiar or dangerous than any number of the other demons that he and his brother had fought before.

"Ugh," Dean said and turned the television off, tossing the remote onto his bed. "I hate daytime television."

"Really?" Sam said dryly, hiding the screen from Dean's view and pulling up Minesweeper instead.

Dean kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm taking a shower."

"No one's stopping you," Sam said, light and snarky, and Dean looked at him as though he'd like to flip him off but was trying to figure out whether or not he was worth the effort. Apparently, Dean decided that he wasn't worth the effort, because he just sighed and shook his head before going to the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Sam immediately jumped up, taking the one long step over to Dean's bed. He yanked the covers down to the foot of the bed, changed the tuck and fold of the sheets with a couple of quick tugs and adjustments, and then folded the covers back into place. Once that was complete, he tucked the pillows in as carefully as they'd been tucked in before he'd messed with them, taking a deep breath before sliding smoothly on his own bed, going back to his game as he waited for Dean to come out from his shower. Sam admitted to himself that short-sheeting Dean's bed wasn't exactly the most clever or original of pranks, but it would still count, and this way he'd have a little bit of freedom while Dean decided what his retaliation would be.

Dean came out of the bathroom about fifteen minutes later, hair damp and spiky, face flushed with heat, and Sam watched him discreetly from beneath his half lowered eyelids, still feeling that small warmth in his chest that appeared every time he realized that his brother was alive again. Alive, and saved from Hell by an _angel_.

"What're you smiling about?" Dean wondered, and Sam opened his eyes to give Dean a curious look, only to realize that he did, in fact, have a tiny, pleased smile on his face.

Sam shrugged and interlaced his fingers behind his head. "I'm just being a girl."

"Oh," Dean said nonchalantly. "Nothing out of the ordinary, then."

"Dude, shut up," Sam said and closed his eyes again.

"Are you going to sleep or something?" Dean asked him, and Sam cracked open an eye to stare at him.

"Is it a day off or not?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, if you want to sleep the whole time, be my guest." He sat on his bed and put his boots on before lacing them up tightly.

Sam yawned and closed his eyes again. "It's not like going to the bar and hustling pool is my idea of a good time."

Dean made a sound of indignation, and once he'd realized Sam wasn't going to bother looking at him, laughed. "Suit yourself, Sammy."

Sam must have fallen asleep some time directly after that, because the next thing he knew he was being smacked solidly upside the head with a pillow. "What? What's going on?" Sam flailed up against the pillow hits to find Dean behind his weapon of choice, obviously dressed for bed in a T-shirt and boxers, eyes a little unfocused and hazy.

"Dude, you freaking short-sheeted my bed! I can't believe you!" Dean was weaving a little on his feet but managed to get another good knock against the side of Sam's head with the pillow anyway.

Sam grabbed for the pillow, and surprised when he caught it, pulled hard enough to find Dean off balance, and he fell in a heap onto Sam's bed. "Oh, my god," Sam huffed out. Dean had managed to sink his elbow solidly into Sam's solar plexus. "Are you seriously telling me that you're so wasted from your night out that you can't even figure out your own bed? And get off me; I can't breathe because you're heavy as a rock."

Dean answered him with a snore, sprawled out against Sam as he was, and Sam let his head fall back to his pillow. He was undeniably awake now after Dean's attack, and he stared up at the ceiling for a full minute before getting up and unsteadily leading his drunk, sleeping brother over to his bed, where Sam just barely had time to slide his pillow under his head before he was out from his half muffled consciousness, flung out on his stomach and slack with exhaustion. Sam took a second to affectionately ruffle the back of Dean's head, dragging his fingers through the short, prickling hairs.

Sam's phone over on the nightstand vibrated, and Sam snatched his hand back to go after the phone, just in case the loud vibration might wake Dean up, and went outside, closing the door behind him quietly.

The caller ID said it was Ruby. "Yeah?" he answered, instead of giving her an appropriate greeting.

"Nice, Sam," came Ruby's dry, ironic voice, "not even a 'Hello.' Sounds like you're picking up your brother's bad manners, too."

"What is it? Or are you calling just to check up on me?" Sam asked, leaning against the wall outside the door.

"I don't need to call you in order to check up on you," Ruby told him, her voice going sharp and annoyed. "I called to see if you were up for a hunt tonight. Thought maybe you could slip Dean's short leash for a couple of hours."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes, I can do it. I'm in—"

"Knappton," Ruby interrupted. "I know. I'll be right there."

Sam snapped his cell phone shut and snuck back into the room, both to make sure Dean was still sleeping like the dead and also to grab a small bottle of holy water and some chalk, just in case he needed to make a devil's snare; he went back outside to wait, and soon enough, Ruby pulled up alongside him in a yellow sports car that he knew she must have stolen.

"He's in the next town over," Ruby said the moment Sam had gotten into the passenger seat and shut the door behind him. "At most, it should only take us a couple of hours, so you should have plenty of time to get back here before Dean wakes up and finds you gone. Okay?"

Sam nodded. "Sounds good."

Ruby didn't say anything for the first couple of miles, but once they were out of city limits, she relaxed enough to increase their speed, and Sam sat back, watching the scenery fly by. "You haven't used your powers since Pontiac, have you?" she asked suddenly, drawing Sam's attention from the world outside the car.

"No," Sam admitted. "Haven't really had the opportunity, now that I'm hunting more than demons again."

"You can't let them weaken too much, you know. There're some demons out there that are just waiting for you to weaken and step wrong." Ruby kept her eyes on the road, taking a left turn and spinning a little rubber on the asphalt.

"I can handle it," Sam said adamantly. "Dean's back, and that's all that I care about. We can take out anything they throw our way."

Ruby scoffed. "That's really sweet and sentimental, Sam, but you need to be realistic. You guys couldn't fight against Hell hounds, and there are hordes of monsters out there that you and your brother can't even comprehend yet. We're getting incredibly close to the end of days, and there's no way either of you are even close to ready."

"What do you know about Revelations and the Apocalypse, Ruby?" Sam asked sharply, looking at her profile, mostly set in shadow offset by the green light of the dashboard.

"Just enough to know that it's bad news." Ruby shrugged. "Enough to know that Hell will leak through the cracks of the world if it happens."

"And that doesn't affect you at all?"

"Are you kidding?" Ruby gave him a startled look before turning her eyes back to the road. "Demons claw their way here because we want to get _away_ from the Pit, not because we want to bring it with us."

"Hmm," Sam said. "Do you think that's just the way you feel?"

"What, you want me to be the spokesperson for all demons now? I can't read their minds. I don't know their motives, and quite frankly, I don't care. I just want them gone." With that, Ruby drove in a crawl, decreasing speed as she flipped the headlights off. "We're here, anyway."

Sam looked around, surprised that they'd gotten here so fast. "How many speed limits did we break to get here?" Sam asked, and Ruby rolled her eyes.

"I _told_ you that it was the next town over. Were you even listening to me?" Ruby slid the car into park and pointed toward a small watch shop. "That's where I found him earlier today. It's eleven at night now, so I figure this would be when he's active, if he's getting himself into any trouble."

"Wait," Sam said, "it's only eleven?" Sam had figured it to be around two in the morning or so, with the way Dean had come in, but Sam supposed it wasn't all that unusual as he was thinking, since that was Dean after a full day at the bar. "Anyway, is he still there now?"

Ruby gave him an irritated look but didn't say anything, reaching into her jacket pocket instead. She pulled an item out and laid her hand flat. It was a small piece of metal in the shape of an arrow, and she closed her eyes, forehead creasing in concentration as she whispered in some language that sounded thick and lacked consonants. Sam sank further against his seat, his arms folded uncomfortably in front of him; he always disliked seeing Ruby work her witch magic. The arrow spun around the axis of Ruby's palm until it hit northwest, where it trembled like an eager dog ready for the hunt. She clenched her hand shut over the arrow and slid it back into her pocket.

"He's that way," Ruby said unnecessarily, and they both got out of the car, Sam double checking the items in his pockets before they headed out.

They found a couple of dark alleys along the northwest direction the demon-spelled compass had pointed, and Ruby pointed her head in the direction that she wanted to go. Sam nodded and pointed out his own preferred road, and they made their way down their separate alleys, both moving carefully and silently. There was a shadow to his left, and Sam shot his hand out but didn't feel the pressure of a demonic presence; for all he knew, it could have been a rat. He thrummed with adrenaline and had to admit that the thrill of hunting demons with Ruby was part of the reason why he kept coming back, even though every trick he learned helped him to save lives as well.

 _And I'm supposed to tell Dean why I do this?_ Sam thought despairingly. After a moment, he shook his head. It was so much more complicated than simply, _it felt good_ , although that was definitely a part of it. It was the hunt—the knowledge that if he was quick enough, then he could save a life—the way it felt to _do_ that, and yes, even the way it felt to use his powers, because damn it, it was _satisfying_ that he didn't have to use the book and Latin to put these creatures back where they belonged. He could totally see _that_ going well, too. _Yeah, Dean, you might have been pulled out of Hell by an angel, but I can exorcise demons with my_ mind. _Is that more or less a win in my column in the long run?_ God. There was no way he could do that. No way. Dean would pitch a fit.

"Sam, now!" He heard Ruby call, and he turned blindly toward her voice, seeing a man run from her section of the maze-like passages toward him, and he hurried after the man, swinging his arm out before him and freezing the guy in his tracks.

The man's eyes went black, and he stared at Sam from where he was frozen.

"Any last words before I send you to Hell?" Sam said tersely.

The demon laughed. "What does it matter if I have something to say? You don't care, and I'd rather not waste my time." He smiled a cold, mirthless smile. "I guess all I can say is that it's kind of ironic, you know, that you're trying to do the right thing so much, and you suck at it. If only your daddy could see you now."

"That's enough, jeez." Sam rolled his eyes. "I ask for a few last words, and I get a monologue."

He shook his head and then shut his eyes in concentration, feeling the power pooling deep within him and causing him to ache, desperate to be released and molded. Sam released that alien energy inside of him without waiting another second, and he opened his eyes to see the man vomiting the demon up in long, black streaks of smoke. Once Sam was sure that the demon was completely removed from its host, he focused on sinking it back to Hell. It fizzled and popped like a dying fire. All told, this exorcism had taken six minutes maximum, and Sam stood back, weighing himself internally. No headaches, right off, which was incredibly awesome, no additional weakness. He felt pretty normal, actually.

He stood over the demon's victim and pressed his fingers to the man's neck, gauging his pulse, and smiled in relief and satisfaction as he felt the beat strong and steady beneath his touch.

"Sam?" Ruby asked, and laid a light hand on his back. "How was it?"

"I feel great," Sam admitted, looking up at Ruby. "There's no pain or weakness. Nothing."

Ruby smiled and nodded. "That's very good. I'm glad."

"Come on." Sam brought the man (he didn't know his name; he never knew their names anymore) to his feet, stabilizing him so that he wouldn't fall back down again, and allowed the man to drape an arm around Sam's shoulder for security. Ruby hurried over to his other side and slid under the victim's other arm, supporting him as best she could as well, and together they got him to the car with hardly any trouble at all. He passed out cold in the backseat. Sam and Ruby got him over to the hospital and left before anyone could get their names, and as Ruby had promised, Sam was back at the hotel within the hour.

Sam let himself in quietly and checked in on Dean. Dean hadn't even moved, if the puddle of drool on his pillow and the soft snores were any indication. Sam carefully got ready for bed and lay down, interlacing his fingers and setting them on his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't doing anything wrong, he decided. And it wasn't like he was keeping this from Dean because he was ashamed or anything. The time just hadn't been right to say anything, what with Dean coming back from the dead and the rising of the witnesses and the banshees. Sam would tell Dean tomorrow.

With that decision, Sam turned over on his side and resolutely closed his eyes to sleep.

~*~

The next morning, Sam woke up groggily to the sound of the local radio station playing classic rock and Dean moving about in the room. For one horrified moment, Sam remembered the Tuesdays that always, always ended with Dean dead, and he bolted up in bed, looking over at Dean just to confirm that he was there and that he wasn't imagining it.

Sam hated to admit it, but the six months that the Trickster had spent on him, forcing him to live without Dean, was actually better than the reality had been. He didn't want to go through either again.

"Time to wake up, Sammy!" Dean said cheerfully. "We've got just enough time to scramble up some breakfast before we head out."

Sam exhaled a deep breath of air and nodded, scrubbing a hand through his hair and going to the bathroom. He took his morning piss and washed his hands before reaching for his toothbrush, absently slathering it with toothpaste before shoving it into his mouth.

He noticed the weird smell of his toothbrush three seconds too late; he already had a mouthful of what had to be the most disgusting thing _ever_. He spat it out and dropped his toothbrush in the sink, running the water and rinsing his mouth out hurriedly. "Dean!" Sam yelled.

"What?" Dean stuck his head into the bathroom.

Sam made an expansive gesture that encompassed the entire bathroom and ended at the sink. "What did you do to the toothpaste?"

Dean's expression was surprisingly sincere, and he cocked his head to the side. "What did _I_ do to the toothpaste? What are you talking about, Sammy? I didn't do anything."

"You're _lying_ , Dean," Sam insisted. "You lie like a _rug_."

"Dude, _what_?" Dean laughed at that, coming more fully into the room and leaning against the doorway.

"I'm _saying_ —" Sam began snippily, but shut his mouth with a snap when the indifferent expression on Dean's face fell off, and Dean started cackling madly.

"Oh, I just can't do it!" Dean gasped through his laughter. "The look on your _face_. I guess you didn't like the taste of Preparation H, huh?"

"Preparation H, Dean?" Sam couldn't even look at his brother and stared at the sink again. "What if you'd _poisoned_ me?"

Dean shook his head carelessly. "You'd only have gotten yourself poisoned if you'd swallowed it, Sammy." Dean gave him another sly look. "All the good boys are supposed to spit."

Sam inhaled a calming breath, reminding himself that he did, in fact, not want to kill his brother again. That, in fact, he had actually just reminded himself how horrible it had been when Dean was dead not even five minutes ago. "Get me the toothpaste, Dean," Sam said through gritted teeth. "The real stuff."

Dean gave him a brilliant smile. "Sure thing, little brother."

Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. It would not be a good idea to kill Dean at all.

~*~

After breakfast, Sam and Dean checked out of their hotel and continued driving in the Impala. It was already early afternoon, and Sam didn't even know where the time had gone. The night with Ruby, the demon hunting, had taken on a weird dreamlike quality, although Sam knew it was most likely sleep deprivation setting in, because it hadn't been all that special or magical in the first place. Just Ruby, her little yellow car, and a demon sent back to Hell. Simple, easy.

Dean continued to sing along with the radio as Sam traced the road maps he'd pulled out of the glove compartment, his fingers following each line and indentation with single-minded intensity. Bluewater was really only home to those blackouts for the last couple of days, and although he was confident in Dean's ability to floor it, he was also really concerned about not getting there on time. What if they got there and the demon had already left? How would they catch the trail again after that? He couldn't keep relying on Ruby to feed him information, and he was pretty sure she was pissed off enough with him as it was. Sam stared out the window, letting his shoulder rest against the glass as he watched the scenery.

"Were you always this emo?" Dean asked him abruptly, and Sam straightened, smacking his head against the roof of the Impala.

"Ow!" Sam said unhappily and rubbed his head as he glared at Dean. "Do you even know what 'emo' is, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, taking one hand off the steering wheel to gesture at him. "It's what you are when you're doing your wistful sighs and staring out the window like a love-struck girl."

Sam shook his head. "Emo is not synonymous with 'girl,' Dean. Seriously."

"Come on. What's wrong with you?" Dean asked, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as the amusement bled out of his voice. "Does Prep H really taste bad enough to spoil your day, even after breakfast?"

"It's not the pranks," Sam said. "It's just that—Everything. The Apocalypse and Revelations and angels. Don't you find it the least bit, oh, I don't know, overwhelming?"

Dean stared out the windshield toward the road, face completely serious. "Yeah." Dean's answer was so soft that Sam wasn't quite sure he'd heard it correctly over the music. Dean glanced over and saw Sam's confused expression; Dean cleared his throat and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Yeah," Dean said again, loud enough for Sam to hear clearly. "Yeah, it freaks me out. You _know_ it does. You with your weird ESP stuff last year,"—Sam averted his eyes, but Dean didn't notice—"the fact that I was torn apart by Hell hounds and resurrected by an angel. It's all weird, and it hurts my head too much if I think about it for too long. So we do what we do, we go and we hunt. And that's that. I'm sure if we're doing something wrong, God"—and Dean's voice held disbelief _still_ —"will tell us to buck up and get cracking. All right?"

"Right," Sam said, and for some crazy reason, although it made no sense at all, Sam was reassured by Dean's words.

~*~

The back of Sam's neck started to prickle within a mile of Bluewater, and he and Dean exchanged a look, as though trying to confirm and verify that they weren't the only ones who felt the bizarre disconnect or the strange crackle of electricity over their skin.

"Okay," Sam said.

"There's something big going on down here, Sammy," Dean said, completely serious, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"I'm calling Bobby," Sam decided, and Dean gave him a curt nod, not even questioning his decision for a second.

"Do that. I think we might need him," Dean agreed, and they continued down the road as Sam pulled out his cell phone.

The phone rang twice before Bobby picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey," Sam said, "Bobby, it's Sam. We think we found the next town that's going to disappear."

"What?" Bobby asked. "This fast?" He sounded impressed and a little pleased.

"We went to Naselle, Washington, where we figured it actually started," Sam told him, "but I kept looking for demonic omens. We don't—I don't think that it's the Croatoan virus anymore. I think it's an actual demon running around, and the area around Bluewater, Arizona has got rolling blackouts, weird weather patterns, the works. And it _feels_ wrong here. I can't explain it, but—"

Dean snatched the cell phone out of Sam's hand, ignoring his glare as he brought the cell phone to his ear. "Hey, Bobby. What the English major over there was trying to say is that we don't know what's going on, and we'd sure like it if you'd give us some back up. Thanks!" Dean nodded in response to something Bobby said, and then answered, "We'll be at the first hotel we come across in Bluewater, going from I-40." Then Dean clicked the phone shut, tossing it back in Sam's direction without looking.

"I take it Bobby's on his way," Sam said dryly, and Dean laughed.

"That's a hell of a guess, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes.

The first hotel they came to was a tiny, two floor Days Inn, and just to shake things up a little bit, Dean made Sam go in and pay for their rooms. The host was a bored looking twenty-something, who barely grunted a word at Sam as he swiped the card without looking or asking for identification and passed over a key card without removing his eyes from the small television playing behind the counter.

Sam shrugged and palmed the key card without asking any questions, content to let it lie, and headed back out to the Impala.

He didn't notice the way the man's eyes sharpened on his back when he went outside or see the man pick up the phone. If he would have known what he had missed, he would have tried to blame himself, but the simple fact was, Dean wouldn't have noticed either.

~*~

The room was like a hundred others they'd been in, kind of comfortable beds flavored with tackiness, stained yellow wallpaper hanging from the walls, a motif of sunflowers and green fields overflowing from the paintings to the bedspread and the light fixtures.

Dean took a look around the room and arched an eyebrow, tossing his duffle bag on his bed and shaking his head. He seemed to be doing a lot of head shaking these days. He and Sam both were. "Is it just me—"

"It's really yellow, yes, Dean," Sam said, already taking the opportunity to unpack his laptop and get it plugged in to the electrical outlet by the table.

Dean looked at a cheesy painting of a giant sunflower. He shuddered. "Some of these places must keep bad artists alive on their budgets alone." Dean turned away and flopped on his bed, nudging his duffle bag out of the way. He tested the springs of the bed, and Sam could tell he was a little sad that it wasn't one of those vibrating coin beds, and Dean looked at his watch instead, sitting up when he noticed how late it was. Sam had already known, of course. One of the most annoying things about sitting shotgun was the ability to count the minutes as they crawled past. "Hey," Dean said, cocking his head in Sam's direction. "I bet the bars are open."

"Go ahead and hustle pool. I'll stay here," Sam said, his eyes already glued to a game of Free Cell.

"The hell I am!" Dean said loudly. "This would be a great time to get some information from the locals, and you know I skeeve people out."

"Dude, it's a bar. That's where you fit best!" Sam protested, but he saved his game anyway and closed the lid of his laptop, deciding to look up at Dean instead of getting out of his chair.

"Come on!" Dean wheedled, giving him an engaging grin. "Let's go play some pool. We can have a couple of drinks, pull the wool over a couple of rednecks, and have a couple of drinks. It's good times!"

"Speaking of those rednecks"—Sam arched an eyebrow at Dean—"I think I see one of those rough necks right in front of me." He didn't mention anything about how attractive Dean's enthusiasm was. For one, Dean would never let him hear the end of it, and for two, any time he _did_ think about it, he always ended up going along with it against his better judgment.

"I'm hurt." Dean leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. "You can admit it. You're just tired of me being around all the time again. No douching up my baby, shotgun all the time again, losing out on all the hot chicks."

Sam's mouth worked soundlessly as Dean teased him so damn _easily_. A chill ran down his spine, and when his voice finally worked, it sounded wrecked and raw, " _No_ , Dean. God."

"Hey," Dean said, and he slid his eyes to the side, glancing at Sam without turning his way. "It's cool." His face held an awkward sort of silent apology, and Sam sighed, deep and heartfelt.

"Dude, whatever. It's only been a couple of weeks. There's no way I'd be tired of you yet," Sam revealed, and Dean rewarded him with a blinding grin and a nudge of his elbow.

"So, what do you say then, Sammy?" he asked, and Sam knew he was doomed. "Drinks?"

"Fine," Sam sighed and got out of his chair, snagging his jacket. "We'll go play some pool."

Dean slapped a hand to Sam's shoulder. "That's a boy. Come on. It'll be fun."

~*~

They found a little hole in the wall that attracted Dean's eye and went in, choosing a little table in the corner, and Dean flagged down a cute, dark-haired waitress in slim jeans and a jersey to get them a pitcher of beer. Dean surveyed the little bar the way a king would survey his kingdom, leaning back in his chair and gracing Sam with another one of his blinding smiles.

The waitress brought the beer after just a minute or so, giving both Dean and Sam a flirtatious smile. Dean sized up the competition over by the pool tables and cocked an eyebrow at Sam. He leaned in close to Sam, his breath warm against Sam's ear and fluttering the lock of hair that winged out at Sam's temple. "Want to take them on?" Sam shook his head, flushing again with warmth at Dean's voice, and he scratched the back of his head, edging away just a little to give himself some space. Dean leaned back, apparently not even noticing Sam's strange behavior. "Okay, then, I'm just going to play, hang out with the locals."

"Sure," Sam croaked, licking at his dry lips as Dean eased out of his chair and headed toward the pool tables. Sam forced himself to look away and pour himself a mug of beer from the pitcher, but he felt his eyes being drawn inexorably back to Dean; the easy rapport he was already building with the townspeople, how he smiled and flirted his way into the game, the way he hefted each pool cue, his fingers graceful and sure as he chose which one he was going to use, the bend and curve of his back, the swell of his ass in his jeans, the way his arms flexed as he took his first shot and made the break. Sam took a quick swallow of his beer, averting his eyes from Dean and staring at the foam in his glass instead, flushing in embarrassment. He knew that he was more aware of Dean since he'd come back from Hell, but there was a difference between looking at him because it had been so long since you'd seen him, and you thought that there was a time you'd never see him ever again, and looking at him because you're checking him out. Sam shook his head; he'd been doing a lot of that lately as well.

"You have a really cute boyfriend there," the waitress drawled from behind him, and Sam jolted, turning to look at her in surprise. "You don't have to look so surprised!" she scolded him.

"You've got the wrong idea," Sam tried to say, but the dark-haired girl shook her head.

"You don't have to worry, okay?" she insisted. "Just because we're a small town in Arizona doesn't mean that we're bigots."

Sam opened his mouth again to deny it—he didn't really care all that much since they were routinely mistaken as a gay couple anyway—but the waitress was cute and might be Dean's type, and Dean would be pissed at him if he knew Sam had just allowed her to think that and spoil his chances—but the girl gave him a nice smile and stuck out her hand.

"Oh, listen to me. I was just trying to be friendly and I've made you uncomfortable."

Sam smiled and shook her hand. "It's okay. Really."

"Great!" the waitress said brightly and gestured at his beer. "Is that all right? Do you want anything to go with it?"

Sam took another drink of his beer, a little longer, and shook his head at the waitress. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Well, my name's Cathy. Give me a holler if there's anything I can do for you, you got that?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, smiling back at her politely. "I will."

"Great." Cathy waited there for a minute as though she were looking for something to happen, and Sam wondered if she wanted more conversation (the bar did look a little empty, but it was only Monday, so maybe she was bored) or if she wanted a tip, but that was a little forward of her if that was the case. He took another drink of beer and topped it off from the pitcher, making a note to himself to get something to eat before he drank too much more, or Dean would be dragging his drunken ass back to the hotel. Just as he was about to ask if there was anything that she wanted to talk about, Cathy gave him a final smile and pointed a thumb over her shoulder. "Well, I ought to get back and do some work now. Looks like your boyfriend is beating our local boys pretty good."

Sam gave her another awkward smile and turned back to his beer as she left, sliding looks to the side to catch glimpses of Dean playing pool across the room. He felt like he was thirteen in high school, where he had had a crush on Brenda McPherson in his Algebra class and could only look at her indirectly, lest he explode into an embarrassing teenage ball of hormones.

And this was his _brother_.

Just then, Dean won a game of pool with a little laugh of victory and looked over to find Sam, eyes sparkling at him even from this distance as his opponent dug into his pocket for some cash. Sam felt an answering smile cross his face, and even though he knew that he should be at the hotel looking for information on what was going on in the town or flirting with the waitress himself to get more information about the population or any number of a thousand things that he could be doing to help Dean solve this case, he couldn't regret being right here, in the corner where Dean could look at him and smile.

He was so screwed.

~*~

In the end, Sam forgot to actually eat anything but stopped short of getting drunk, so he floated along in a pleasantly warm sort of haze, his arm around Dean's shoulder more for guidance than for actual support, and Dean was bitching in his ear. It was so familiar and good that it made his throat swell a little with emotion.

"Dude, I can't believe you drank all of the beer yourself!" Dean was saying as they staggered their way to the Impala. "Haven't you ever heard of, I don't know, _sharing_?"

"You were playing pool," Sam pointed out, tightening his hold on Dean as Dean got him over to the passenger side. Sam leaned on Dean as he opened the door, giving Dean a dopey smile. "I figured they were buying you drinks."

"I can't believe you got drunk," Dean groused and toppled Sam over into the seat by slipping out from under his arm.

"I'm not drunk," Sam said, and Dean shut the door in his face, so he waited patiently until Dean got into the driver's seat. "I'm just a little buzzed. I made sure there was plenty of time for it to work out of my system. I'm not even slurring."

"Huh." Dean gave Sam another disbelieving look. "You would have ordered another pitcher to yourself if we'd been there any longer."

Sam shrugged. "I'm just loosening up, that's all. Like I said—not slurring, not drunk. And it got Cathy to drop by a couple of times, so I was chatting up the locals. Just like you. So quit worrying, will you?"

"Yeah, whatever." They pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward the hotel. "Did Cathy tell you anything interesting?"

Sam laughed. "Just that half the girls in the place were hot on us, but they thought we were hot on each other."

"What? You're lying," Dean said, but then took another look at Sam's expression and deflated. "They really did? That sucks. Why does everyone think we're gay for each other?"

Sam opened his mouth, not having any idea what to say, and just shrugged instead. "You have to admit that it's a good cover."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, Sammy. In _Arizona_ , it's a good idea. That's brilliant, College Boy."

Sam slumped into his seat. "Whatever. At least here they thought we looked cute."

"We always look cute," Dean revealed and pulled into a parking spot in front of their room. "We're smokin', dude. We'd be cute no matter what."

"Huh," Sam said eloquently and got out of the Impala, heading toward the room and pulling out his key card. "I guess."

The room was dark when Sam finally managed to get the door open, and he wished absently that they'd kept a light on as he felt around the wall for the light switch. When the light flashed on, Sam blinked for a second until his vision adjusted, and then he took a step back in surprise, stepping on Dean's foot as he came up behind him.

"Ow! Jesus, Sammy, why'd you just stop—" Dean got a look over Sam's shoulder and his mouth clicked shut. Castiel was sitting on one of the beds, paging idly through the Bible that had been in the top drawer of the dresser. "Oh. Sorry." Dean said as he stepped out from behind Sam, a blush flushing over his cheeks.

Sam looked from Castiel to Dean, and then looked once more around the room, noticing a black man in a crisp looking dark suit standing by the window. "Um. Hi?" Sam said lamely, still a little buzzed and all the more embarrassed for it. He swayed in place, and Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder to steady him.

Castiel nodded once at them and set the Bible aside. He stood, locking his eyes on Dean. "Why are you here, Dean Winchester?"

Dean dropped his hand from Sam's shoulder and took a step forward, giving Castiel a concerned, confused look. "I'm hunting. What are _you_ doing here? Don't you have some crazy holy war to fight?"

The man by the window stirred, and the hair on the back of Sam's neck prickled. To Castiel, Sam said, "You left before I could ask you any questions, last time we saw you." Sam's tongue felt a little thick in his mouth and the room swam in and out of focus for a second.

"We do not care about your questions, Samuel Winchester," the man by the window said, and Castiel tilted his head, as though he wished to interrupt.

Dean gave Castiel another look and then stared daggers at the black man's head. "Who's Chuckles over there, Castiel?"

"That is Uriel," Castiel said, voice stern but otherwise inflectionless. "And both you and your brother need to leave here."

"Like I said," Dean said stubbornly, "I'm busy hunting here. Got a reason why I should be somewhere else?"

"Who is Uriel?" Sam asked. Uriel turned to look at him, and he felt incredibly small, even though he towered over the other man. Sam had vague recollections of reading the Bible, and of the angels that were mentioned in the text, but he was still floored by the fact that he was even _meeting_ angels that he was a little confused and awestruck. Also, still maybe a little more drunk than he'd realized.

"Who I am does not concern you," Uriel said and made his way to stand before them, his stride graceful and without a single wasted motion. "Castiel has already told you what you must do. Any other information is unnecessary."

"Wrong answer," Dean said, shooting a scowl in Uriel's direction. "No one is doing anything until I _get_ some more information." He turned to look at Castiel again, and Sam shifted, uncomfortably aware that Castiel's intense stare had not moved from Dean for a second since he'd walked into the room.

Castiel took a breath and exhaled; if it were anyone else, it might have been considered a sigh. "Uriel is—"

"Your wingman?" Dean said with a grin. At that, Sam actually did sigh; Uriel shifted impatiently, clasping his hands behind his back, and Castiel just looked at Dean as though waiting for an explanation on why that should be funny in the first place. Dean's smile slipped off of his face, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Never mind."

Castiel nodded once and then continued as though he were never interrupted in the first place. "Uriel is a specialist. He's here to complete our task."

"And your task is?" Dean asked.

Uriel stepped forward. "It's not your concern," he said coolly and stared at Dean. "The only thing that you need to know is that we've told you to leave. You should heed us."

"Excuse me if I don't like to take someone just on their word, okay?" Dean said insolently, and Uriel rose up onto the balls of his feet for a moment, mouth opening as though he were about to say something. Castiel stuck an arm out in front of him, and Uriel took a deep breath, settling himself.

"Dean." Castiel said his name earnestly, and Sam took a step closer to his brother in response, his hackles rising the longer that he was in the room with the angels. "You need to go, for your own safety. You were never meant to be here in the first place."

"Well, I'm here now," Dean insisted, and Sam felt a kind of admiration for his brother. Who else would talk back to an angel, seriously? "So tell me what's going on. Maybe we could help."

Uriel snorted at that, and Castiel sent him a quelling look, the first time he'd looked away from Dean that Sam had noticed. "Like Dean said," Sam interjected, "we're really in the middle of something here." Sam shook his head, trying to clear it; Dean shot a look over at him in concern.

"There are demons here," Castiel said abruptly, eyes returning beseechingly back to Dean like a lodestone pointing to true north. "You are not able to end this. This is a matter for angels. You must leave."

"Why are you so insistent we go, Cas?" Dean asked.

"Because—" Castiel began, but Uriel interrupted.

"Because we are going to purify this town," Uriel said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean blinked. Sam looked back and forth between Uriel and Castiel, unable to figure out who he should look at.

"And by purify, you mean … ?" Dean trailed off, waiting expectantly for one of the angels to pick the sentence up and finish it for him.

"We must destroy this place," Castiel said softly, intensely, and he took a step closer to Dean, inching into his personal space. "Do not make this any more difficult than it has to be, Dean Winchester. You do not know what we face here."

"You can't actually be serious!" Dean said, his voice pitched low and taut with anger, and if anything, Sam noticed Castiel's expression become just a little sadder, as though he were disappointed in the fact that Dean was fighting against him even now. "Are you saying that you're going to kill over seven hundred people, and you're not even going to blink an eye?" Dean looked over at Uriel, who remained in place, calm and impassive. "Are you okay with this?"

Uriel seemed mildly surprised that Dean had asked the question of him, and looked at Dean, an expression of distaste crossing his dark features. "I do as the Lord bade me, Dean Winchester. God will raise the righteous." He looked around the room, and then went back to the window, staring out it once again. "If there are any to raise in this pit."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!" Dean turned back to Castiel. "There are _people_ here."

"You're angels," Sam added, looking at Uriel, and then, when he didn't even bother to turn his head and look back at him and Dean, focusing on Castiel as well. The anger helped to clear the fog from his head. "Aren't you supposed to show some mercy? Aren't you supposed to have reasons before you just _smite_ a place?"

Castiel tilted his head, transferring his gaze from Dean to Sam. "Just because we choose not to tell you our motives, Samuel Winchester, does not make them any less true, or any less just."

"So," Sam said slowly, "this plan is just? On what merit?"

"The plan is from Heaven," Castiel said, his voice still not rising above a normal conversational level, as if he were having a really intense conversation about tea. "That makes it just."

"And that's okay?" Dean asked.

"It isn't your decision," Uriel said, and he looked at Castiel. "We have given our warning, Castiel. Let them do with it what they will."

"You speak to us of mercy," Castiel said, looking at Sam; Sam swallows and keeps himself utterly still. He fights the urge to cross his arms over his chest, unnerved by that still, deep, focused gaze turned onto him instead of his brother. "We can be merciful."

"You sure haven't acted like it," Sam slurred, and he staggered, falling to a knee as he tried to shake more clarity into his head again.

"Sam?" Dean asked warily, eyes darting between Castiel and Sam.

Uriel scoffed a final time and vanished; Castiel knelt next to Sam, placing gentle fingers against his temple. "He has been drugged."

Dean blinked and swore softly. "The beer. That waitress—"

"He will be fine." Castiel looked at Dean again, as though he wanted to say more, but took a breath instead. "Do not ignore this warning, Dean." Castiel was gone before Sam could even blink.

"God damn it!" Dean yelled spitefully after them and then turned to look at Sam, annoyed. "What the hell's going on here?"

Sam thought about Ruby, about how she said that they were not ready for whatever it was that was at work here, and remained silent.

"Damn it, Sammy," Dean said and hauled him up to his feet. Sam took the opportunity to snuffle against the back of Dean's head, blurry and full of satisfaction.

"I really think I'm out of it," Sam confessed.

Dean scoffed. "I hadn't figured that out! Sniffing my hair is just so _normal_ for you!"

"Shut up!" Sam said, but Dean just laughed, shoving him onto his bed.

"Go to sleep, and don't die, or I'll have to hunt down some angels."

"Your concern is touching," Sam said foggily and then passed out.

~*~

When Sam woke up the next morning, Dean was already up again and had made the rounds of the town, which was still all in one piece.

"So, what are we going to do, Dean?" Sam asked and then stuck his toothbrush in his mouth while he was waiting for his response. Now that there was something serious going on, Sam trusted the prank war was on hold for now and had not planned his return prank for the Preparation H. He was actually a little surprised he even _remembered_ that after the previous night and shook his head, a little annoyed with himself and the shallowness of what his brain decided to keep.

Angels were about to destroy a town for some unknown reason and had only given them a limited, unspecified time to leave before they were taken down with it.

"What the hell do I know, Sammy?" Dean asked curtly, stalking about the room. "Am I supposed to have gotten something out of that that you didn't get? Because I didn't."

"Do you really think they'll kill you if you stay here while they're getting ready to destroy this place?" Sam asked, a little worried. "I mean, they pulled you from Hell, so that would be a lot of effort wasted."

"I don't think Cas would do it, but I don't know about that other guy, Uriel."

"So," Sam said, going over to toy with his laptop just for the sake of having something to do with his hands, "Castiel seems really … proprietary toward you."

Dean turned to give Sam a disbelieving look. "Dude, are you serious?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you even talking about?"

Sam blushed furiously and hunched over his laptop. "It's just that he was really up in your space. Never mind."

"You're right, never mind," Dean scowled. "What we need to do is get these townspeople out of here—"

"Wait, Dean," Sam said, and Dean paused, waiting impatiently for him to speak. "They're angels. It's stupid of us to think that they don't know what they're doing, isn't it?"

"Make up your mind, Sammy," Dean said. "Either we save these people, or we leave town and let the angels smite it. There're only two choices here."

"Well, the thing is," Sam said, and he abandoned his laptop, moving to stand in front of Dean so he could plead his case face to face with his brother, "what if they're right about something bad being in this town? What if it is something that we can't help with?"

"If you believed that, would you have brought us here?" Dean demanded, staring up at him with furious eyes. "We hunt because we help people, Sammy. We don't just give up with our tail between our legs because angels told us to! If you want to leave, fine, but I'm not budging until I find out what's going on here."

Dean side stepped Sam and strode over to the door, flinging it open in his angry, dramatic way that he had when they were arguing, only to find the hotel helper out in front of the door. "Um," he said, sidetracked by the sudden appearance of an actual person from the establishment, "sorry about the noise—my brother and I were just having a little argument."

"No problem," the twenty-something kid said, and Sam stepped closer, wondering what it was he wanted if it wasn't about the noise.

"Is there something we can do for you?" Sam asked.

"There sure is," a familiar voice came from behind him, and the twenty-something kid moved out of the way to reveal Cathy, the waitress from the bar. "Sam, Dean, we'd like you to come with us, please."

Sam blinked. "I never told you our names."

Cathy smiled and shrugged. "Lucky guess?" Her eyes went black, and Dean jumped back, swearing loudly. Sam reached for the flask of holy water that he always kept in an inside pocket of his jacket and uncapped it as Dean brought out the knife, but the twenty-something barreled into Dean without hesitation, showing no fear of the knife. Dean bounced hard under the man's tackle, the knife skittering under one of the beds, and Sam splashed the holy water on Cathy's face.

Cathy screamed, smoking horribly, and shook her head, stepping unsteadily forward.

Sam grabbed her wrist and reared back to punch her or to pull her out, he really wasn't sure which, but her hand came up to grab his wrist as well, and she was smiling, all teeth and ill intent. "Surprise," she said, and then all Sam saw was black.

~*~

When Sam woke up, he woke up fast and suddenly, and he pried open an eye to take a discreet look around. He was at the bar, tied to one of the support beams that littered the place, and if he flexed his hands he could feel the rope binding him and brush his fingers against Dean's. Sam breathed an internal sigh of relief. Dean was with him. That was better than just being alone.

"Nice of you to join us, Sam," Cathy said, and she nudged him with the toe of her boot.

Sam attempted to continue the farce of being unconscious, but Cathy just kicked him harder and crouched before him, grasping his chin in her hand. "Wakey, wakey, Sammy boy," she sing-songed, tapping her nails against his cheek. Sam gave up the pretense as she continued to poke and prod at him, and shot her a narrow look from under his lashes.

"How do you know my name?" Sam asked, watching her dark eyes.

Cathy smiled sweetly. "You hear a lot of things, traveling around. Like things about the demon killer and his angel-blessed brother coming around to try and clean up your nice and cozy establishment. That one was a surprise. But I suppose I should thank you two." Cathy let Sam's chin go and stood back up.

"What do you mean?" That was Dean, voice rough and sounding dangerous. "That you should thank us?"

Cathy shrugged. "If it weren't for you, we wouldn't know that the angels were here."

"We?" Sam asked, carefully testing the knot that tied him and Dean together.

"Yes." Cathy smirked, and several townspeople they had seen on the streets stepped up beside her. "You didn't think I was alone, did you?"

"How exciting," Dean said, his voice sharp with irony, "we have more than one demon bitch to take down."

The kid from the Days Inn walked over to Dean, and Sam heard the sound of a fist striking flesh. "You should show some respect," he growled, and Sam heard Dean laugh.

"I don't do that for _angels_. What makes you think I'd do that for demons like you and the bar maid here?"

"You have the wrong idea there, Dean," Cathy purred, and Sam looked at her carefully, then at the people by her side.

"Dean," Sam whispered in a sudden, illuminating epiphany, "they aren't all demons."

"What?" Dean asked.

Cathy looked at Sam with a smile. "Your brother isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, is he?" she asked conversationally and walked around until she was facing Dean. "Let's see if I can put this into words small enough for you to understand, shall we?" Sam craned his neck to the side so that he could see at least a little of her. Dean's hands were working against his, and Sam could feel a little sliver of something sharp cutting into the ropes. Sam hastily froze the movement of his hands, trying to make it a little easier on Dean to get them released.

"Do you see this pretty little body?" Cathy asked, and she ran her hand through her hair. "She _asked_ for this. It was an _honor_."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean demanded. "No one in their right minds would _ask_ a demon to ride them!"

"You'd be surprised at how many people would," Cathy said, circling around until she was facing Sam again. "We ride them and put them away wet, and they _love_ us for it. They make us strong. It's _delicious_." She gestured, and one of the beefy guys that Dean had been playing pool with the night before stepped up, cracking his knuckles ominously. "We aren't going to let you or your angels take this away from us."

The front door of the bar creaked open just as Dean worked the last thread of their ropes through, and Cathy looked toward the intruders, pretty face twisting in rage. At that moment, Sam lunged upward, curling his hand into a fist, and slammed it into her chin with the full weight of his momentum. It made her stagger for just a second, but that second was long enough for Sam to turn around toward the door with Dean and find Uriel and Castiel standing there. Castiel looked distinctly disappointed; Uriel just looked impatient.

"Dean. Sam." Castiel gestured them forward. When they followed his instructions, he placed a hand on each of their shoulders and leaned forward. "Leave now. Get what you need and don't look back."

"Wha—" Dean began to ask, and Sam had no idea why he was even opening his mouth.

Castiel turned a blazing look on Dean, and Dean went silent. "Don't look back," Castiel repeated and shoved them through the doorway.

Dean made as if to turn, but Sam put his hand on Dean's back and shook his head when Dean looked at him, a little curious and a little hurt.

"Let's not argue with them this time, Dean," Sam said earnestly.

"There are _people_ in there, Sammy!"

Sam shook his head. "It's too late for them. And if we don't hurry, it'll be too late for us, too." He watched as it finally sunk into Dean's head that they needed to go, needed to go right _now_ , and they both took off running toward the hotel.

Dean skidded into the parking lot, diving for the Impala, and Sam made a quick stop at the room, opening the door with the key card he still had and grabbing his laptop and slinging their duffle bags over his shoulder. He had a second to give thanks for the obsessive neatness their father had instilled in them when packing on a hunt, and hurried out to the car where Dean sounded like he was laying on the horn.

Sam tossed the duffle bags into the back seat and dropped the laptop gently on the floorboard beneath his feet. Dean was already flooring the gas pedal as Sam shut the door.

They didn't look back.

~*~

Sam and Dean flew down the highway in the Impala, Bluewater left in the dust behind them, and Sam felt Dean slam on the brakes before he saw Castiel and Uriel in the road directly before them.

Dean was out of the Impala, storming toward the angels, and Sam followed him on instinct.

"What was that about back there?" Dean shouted at them; Sam winced, but neither of the angels did anything. "Did you kill them all? What if someone had been innocent? What if they hadn't _known?_ "

Castiel gave Dean a probing look, as though he couldn't quite believe that Dean was asking him this. "No one that was left in that town was savable, Dean."

Uriel gave Dean a cool look. "We did not come to answer to your mortal judgment, Dean Winchester. We came to tell you that if this happens again, we will not waste the time to warn you of our intentions."

Castiel cast his gaze to the side. "Uriel."

Uriel turned to Castiel, already dismissing Sam and Dean now that his message had been delivered. "Be finished with these mud monkeys, Castiel. They make you weak." He took one final look behind Sam and Dean, toward the town that now lay fifty miles behind them, and shook his head. "I don't understand humans," he said finally, and Sam thought he could detect a little sadness beneath the anger. "You were given the gift of free will." Uriel said, and looked straight at Sam. "Yet you still choose damnation." With that, Uriel vanished.

Castiel stayed for a moment longer. "It had to be done," he said, simply and honestly. "If there had been any other way—"

"You could have _not_ done it," Dean said angrily. Sam put a hand on his shoulder, reeling him in just a little.

"I do not have to explain my actions to you," Castiel said, his voice iron beneath its softness, and Dean deflated. Castiel softened his voice even further. "Why is it so difficult for you to simply have faith?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably—he felt as though he were intruding on a private moment between them, like this was a conversation that they'd had before. Dean shrugged off Sam's hand, and Sam gratefully slunk back another couple of steps.

Dean opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, closed it at the last minute, and shook his head instead. "Forget it. Come on, Sam."

"Dean," Castiel said.

When Sam and Dean looked at Castiel, he had his hand held out, palm up, and there was the knife. Sam remembered with vivid clarity the confrontation at the hotel room, the way that the knife had fallen from Dean's grasp when that guy had tackled him, the way it had skittered under the bed. Sam had forgotten it when he grabbed their things.

Dean stalked up to Castiel and snatched the knife out of his hand. "Thanks," Dean said ungratefully and turned away, eyes sliding past Sam as he moved.

Sam followed Dean without a word back to the Impala. He watched Dean from the moment they went back to their seats to the moment Dean started the ignition.

When he finally had the courage to look up, Castiel had already gone.

Sam felt strangely relieved by that. "Dean," he began, not even sure what he was going to say.

"Don't, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam looked at him again, a little more closely. Dean looked exhausted, as if that last exchange with Castiel had stripped him of all the angry adrenaline that had brought him here. "Could we just. Not talk about it?"

"Sure," Sam said, although he felt like that was the biggest lie out of all the lies he'd told to Dean thus far. "No problem."

Dean kept his eyes on the road. "You'd best call Bobby and let him know … " Dean trailed off.

After waiting about thirty seconds to see if Dean would say anything else, Sam picked up his cell phone and dialed. "Bobby?"

"Sam?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, it's me. Sam. You don't need to come to Bluewater. It was kind of taken out of our hands."

"What do you mean, it was kind of taken out of your hands? Did you find out what was going on or not?"

"Yeah, we did. It was a demon. And some humans. And Dean's angels threw us out and took them down."

Sam kept waiting for Dean to make a crack about that, about how Dean's Angels sounded totally kick ass, but Dean remained silent, focused on his driving.

"Are you boys all right?" Bobby asked, and if he was annoyed about having to drive out to who knows how far, only to turn right back around, Sam couldn't hear it from his tone.

Sam shot Dean another discreet look. Dean didn't notice. "Yeah," he answered. "Dean and I are fine. Sorry for making you come out for a false alarm."

"I'd only just got to Arizona," Bobby said diffidently, as though he hadn't (although he must have, by Sam's calculations) driven all night just to get that far. "I need to check out a salt and burn anyway, so there's nothing to worry about."

"Okay." Sam nodded, although Bobby couldn't see him, and then continued, "We'll probably stop for the night soon, and then get back to your place in the next couple of days unless we find a hunt."

"You do that," Bobby said, and the line disconnected.

"So," Dean said, "how mad is he?"

"I think he's okay," Sam answered.

"That's good," Dean said, and went quiet again.

Sam wanted to continue a little more, to ask Dean to talk to him, but he didn't know how he could do that without setting Dean off again. Castiel and Uriel were creepy, and they were pricks, but Castiel seemed to get under Dean's skin. Maybe it had to do with being the one who took Dean out of Hell, or maybe it was something else, but Sam didn't like it at all. And he couldn't really say anything about it without feeling absolutely ridiculous.

Instead, he rummaged through Dean's tape collection and popped in a Bad Company cassette. Dean shot Sam a look from the corner of his eye, and as the first strains of music poured from the speakers, Dean warmed from that tension he'd been carrying, relaxing into the seat of the Impala, tapping his fingers along to the beat against the steering wheel.

They drove until they were hungry for dinner, and Dean pulled into the next town they came to, looking for dinner and a place to sleep. It was so painfully normal that Sam could almost forget that there had been a town of over almost eight hundred people that was gone now.

Almost.

And Sam had an idea to take Dean's mind off of it, too.

~*~

Sam woke up early that morning while Dean was still asleep (and it was actually kind of funny how they traded days off like this) and snuck out of the hotel room to go to the little convenience store on the corner. He bought talcum powder, disposable razors, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and deodorant to replace the stuff he was pretty sure they lost when they fled town at the angels' behest, and also made sure to grab a couple of pastries and some piping hot coffee, taking it all back to the hotel. He knew that if he brought the food in, Dean would wake up, so instead, he set the coffee in the cup holders and the pastries in the driver's seat of the Impala for a minute while he uncapped the talcum powder and carefully poured it into the vents, making sure he left no mark that might give Dean a hint as to what Sam was doing to his baby. When Sam was finished, he tossed out the empty talcum powder container and gathered up their breakfast, letting himself back into their room.

On cue, Dean twitched in his bed, opening bleary eyes to take in Sam and breakfast. "Mmm," Dean purred and tossed off his blankets, stretching and making grabby motions toward the coffee. Sam found himself eyeing the curve and bend of his brother against the mattress and wanted to bang his head against the wall; instead, he just grinned and passed over the caffeine.

"Up and at 'em," Sam said, taking a bite of his pastry. "We have places to go and miles to burn."

"I hear ya, man," Dean said agreeably, voice still rough from sleep, and he sat up before taking a long gulp of his coffee. Sam tossed the basic toiletries he'd gotten while he was out onto Dean's bed, and Dean nodded as he gathered it up. "Good thinking."

Sam took advantage of the last moments of wireless as Dean finished breakfast and got ready for the day, scouring over his normal newspaper links to see if anything worth chasing had shown up since the last time he'd looked.

The Arizona newspapers didn't say anything about Bluewater. Sam supposed it was a blessing.

Once Dean was ready and their stuff was safely stowed in the backseat of the Impala, it seemed like the only thing left to do was move forward. Sam lurked outside the Impala for a minute as Dean opened his door, wondering if he should wait until the car had started before getting in, just so he could avoid the powder attack. For a moment, it looked like Dean was going to slide into his seat like normal, but then he stuck his head back out, crossing his arms over the door as he looked at Sam.

"What is it?" Sam asked, trying to look as unassuming as possible.

"I was just thinking," Dean said, "what with all the angels and the demons and the missing towns and whatever, maybe we could just call a truce on the pranks for a while. You know? Just for the next day or two."

Sam felt his eyes widen at that. " _You_ want to declare truce?"

Dean flushed, giving him a very annoyed look. "I'm not _surrendering_ or anything here. Just a breather."

Sam shrugged easily. "Yeah, sure. No problem."

"Okay, then." Dean gave him a brief smile that was all insincerity and bright teeth and slid into his seat, sticking the key into the ignition.

"The thing is," Sam said hurriedly as he sat down and shut the door, "I don't think we should use the air conditioner right now, okay? We can lower the windows if we need air circulation."

Dean looked at him in confusion for almost seven seconds before his eyes went narrow and accusing. "What did you do to my girl?" he demanded.

Sam absolutely, positively did not look at Dean or blush or hunch his shoulders against Dean's rage. "I'll clean it up, Dean. There's nothing to worry about. I promise!"

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, but Sam remained silent on this one, and Dean didn't use the vents.


	3. Snow Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stumbled over the lines of prayer, lips moving soundlessly, until he knew no more.

Atoan Missal was happy to say he was a pretty normal kid, all things considered. Despite being a full-blooded Abenaki, he didn't live on the reservation (definitely something to be thankful for; he hated the cold, whether it be the kind of cold that was in Maine or Quebec, either one); he had plenty of high tech toys thanks to his parents; he was in a posh high school; he had a lot of friends.

In fact, he'd just had an awesome day at the school literary fair. He had raked leaves and cleared gutters so that he would have enough money to buy the books he'd wanted, and he couldn't wait to get home and read them.

Or he had been excited before someone had taken what felt like a brick to his head.

He didn't think that there were things like this—intellectually, he knew about hate crimes, but he always thought that it was something suffered by gay people,- or people who hated religion or something crazy like that. He didn't expect it to happen just because he was Native American. He didn't expect it to happen here. He didn't expect it to happen to him.

And he didn't expect it to hurt like this, where each blow was searing, the air scorching his lungs with every agonizing burst, every gasp, where just trying to move was mind numbing.

"Please," he begged. "Please."

It felt like pieces of him were grinding together in ways they weren't supposed to, jagged and raw and so, so painful.

 _With we who visit ghosts from the Sun Star of our birth and in our infancy, which is from the Land of The Rising Star…_

But it was so hard to keep the prayer in mind and he was so afraid and he _hated_ them for doing this _hated hated hated_ —

The pain burst behind his eyes in sparkles of light, and he could feel his cheeks wet with his tears and _oh god_ —

 _… we have been taught to love Mother Earth and to Respect her we are the Children of the Dawn, the People of the East …_

He stumbled over the lines of prayer, lips moving soundlessly, until he knew no more.

~*~

Dean dipped a French fry into ketchup, dragging it on his plate as he waited for Sam to come back from the bathroom. He was still pissed off over what happened in Bluewater, and he knew it; worse, Sam knew it, and although Dean knew it hurt Sam's feelings that he couldn't bring himself to explain why it pissed him off, he also felt that it was kind of self- explanatory. Casti—the angels. They just wiped a town without blinking, not even feeling anything over it. It just steamed him. And it didn't help that only he, Sam, and Bobby even seemed to remember that the place had existed in the first place. Maybe that was the angelic idea of _mercy_. Or clean up. What was that about? If it _was_ mercy, it was lame. Lamer than drinking before noon in a little place in Idaho, anyway.

Sam slid into the booth opposite of Dean and tossed a folded newspaper at his head.

"Hey!" Dean protested, batting at it with his hand and knocking it to the table. "What gives?"

"We might have a case," Sam said. "Take a look."

Dean snapped the paper out and looked at the newspaper, scanning over the headlines. "Huh." He set it down, chomping on his fry.

"Well?" Sam said impatiently.

Dean cocked an eyebrow in Sam's direction, clearly skeptical. "You really think it's a case? It's _snow_."

"Yeah, it's snow." Sam looked at Dean as though he couldn't believe how stupid his brother was sometimes. Dean stared at him, part of him doing it just to be obstinate, part of him genuinely curious as to how his brother would try to talk him into it. "It's _snow_. In _Arizona_. In _October_. You don't think that's worth investigating?"

"It could be anything. Probably just global warming or something," Dean said and ate his last fry.

The look that Sam gave him could have peeled paint from the walls. Dean resisted the urge to look and see if that could have actually happened. "Yeah, Dean. That makes a lot of sense. _Global warming_ caused it to snow in Arizona, because it's obvious that greenhouse gasses actually cool things down!"

"Okay, okay! Jeez." Dean wiped his hands on his jeans as he got ready to stand up. "I got it. We'll check it out. See if anything supernatural-like is causing it to snow in Arizona." Dean shook his head. "Arizona again. Something must be wrong with that place."

"And … " Sam mumbled something under his breath that Dean couldn't catch, so Dean flicked him on the ear as he passed.

"What was that, Sammy?" Dean asked as Sam rubbed his ear and followed after him, grabbing the paper.

"I said that, you know, since it's near the right place and everything, we could go see the Grand Canyon. Like you keep complaining that you want to."

Dean gave him a bright smile, his mood lifting incredibly just by that one sentence. "Well, why didn't you just _say_ so?"

"We're going to check on the weather first," Sam said pointedly, "and then—"

"I got it, little brother. We'll hunt, and then if the sky hasn't started falling, we'll be tourists for a little while." They went to the Impala, and Dean's baby purred as he turned on the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot, as eager for a new hunt as Dean was himself. "So, tell me more."

Sam nodded and looked back at the paper. "The town is Peach Springs. It seems that they've been having flurries over the last month and a half. A couple of people have been caught out in it. No fatalities yet, but there's been several cases of hypothermia and some frost bite. If it's something, I think it's gearing up, testing itself out. It's going to get worse the closer it gets to winter."

"Damn," Dean said wistfully, looking out the Impala's windshield at the crystal clear blue sky. "So, do you have any ideas about what it could be?"

Sam shrugged. "No clue, really. It could be anything. It could be nothing."

"Yeah, that narrows it down, Sammy," Dean said sarcastically.

"Hey, I'm sorry I can't just automatically figure out what's going on from some weird weather patterns and a really bad article, okay?" Sam said, face squinched in annoyance. "I don't see you coming up with any ideas."

"Whoa, cowboy," Dean said hastily. "Calm down. I wasn't asking if you had this _solved_ , just if you had any clues." Dean squirmed a little as Sam sucked in a deep breath and figured maybe a judiciously-applied compliment would not be amiss. "Hey, you're the brains, you know. I figure if anyone can figure it out from weird weather patterns and a really bad article, it would be you." Sam exhaled and slumped back into his seat. Dean counted that a victory. "Besides, my vote is that the abominable snowman's come down from his mountain and brought his snow with him."

As he'd planned, Sam made a sound that was torn somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, and he shook his head. "You know as well as I do that the abominable snowman doesn't exist, and if he did, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't bring his own mood lighting."

"Hey, you never know," Dean said, "some of these suckers like their mood lighting."

Sam rolled his eyes, his expression lightening, and Dean counted that as a victory as well.

~*~

They pulled into Peach Springs, Arizona with no fan fare, did their usual measure of the place — pick their beds, get the things they might need, look around outside (it was beautiful, the air crisp and clean, the sky a perfect birds-egg blue, comfortably warm) — and Sam sighed and parked himself in front of the laptop again. Dean patted his shoulder and went out to take a look at the townspeople.

He went to his favorite place to cruise, which of course was the family restaurant a couple of streets down the way, and got himself a piece of apple pie and a glass of milk to snack on while he eavesdropped. It didn't take long to get involved in an interesting conversation with the waiter and the cook on duty—it was a slow day, and he was new; that never failed to be a mark in his favor.

"So wait, wait," Dean said, waving his hand to interrupt Ed, the cook, "Are you telling me you guys have had _snow_? With this kind of weather perking up on you?"

"Crazy, isn't it?" Barry, the waiter, asked enthusiastically. "My cousin got caught in a flurry just a couple of days ago."

"Caught up in one?" Dean asked curiously, taking a bite of his pie. "How do you just get caught? Isn't there usually some sort of warning?"

"Well, yeah," Barry said, "but there really wasn't one. Weather report said it was clear, but she got caught anyway. Just shows that you can't really trust the weather channel, huh?"

"You bet," Dean said. "Is your cousin going to be okay?"

"Yeah, she'll be fine. She was a bit loopy at first, though. Kept talking about a bird making it snow."

"A bird making it snow?" Dean laughed and shook his head. "That's nutty. She was probably just confused from the hypothermia." Dean took some bills from his pocket and handed them to Barry. "Thanks for the conversation." Dean smiled. "That's for the pie. Go ahead and keep the change."

"No problem. Make sure you drop by before you leave town!" Ed said cheerfully. "We'll have another slice of pie for you!"

"Dude," Dean said, honest and heartfelt. "You are _awesome_."

He drove back to the hotel and burst into the room, confident that if anyone could make any sense of that bird thing, Sammy would. Sam looked up from his laptop when Dean came in, moving from an uncomfortable-looking hunch. Dean could hear his shoulders and spine pop with the tension as Sam stretched.

"Dude, you must have the worst back ever, sitting like that all the time," Dean said, sauntering over to his brother and resting his hip against the table.

"Someone's got to do the research, Dean—" Sam began, putting a hand to the back of his neck, but Dean just waved him silent.

"You can do research without doing a pretzel, Sammy."

"Yeah, whatever, shut up. Did you find anything interesting out?" Sam winced and moved his shoulder in a circle, trying to get it relaxed. Dean cast his eyes heavenward and pushed Sam's hands away from the back of his neck, replacing them with his own.

"What're you—?" Sam began, but Dean squeezed his neck, silently warning him.

"Say anything, and I stop, got it?" Dean demanded, and Sam just obediently dropped his hands and relaxed under Dean's touch. Dean felt along Sam's shoulders for the worst of the knots and pressed, testing the knots and how much pressure he could put without hurting Sam more than he was hurting already. "Anyway, I was talking to the people in the diner—they have great pie, by the way—"

"Of course they do," Sam said in an undertone.

"And apparently these storms come out of nowhere. The weather predictions will be all mild and sunny, and then poof. There's snow."

"Interesting," Sam mumbled, and Dean noticed with some amusement that the back of Sam's neck had begun to flush. He dug his thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot at the base of Sam's neck and got a gasp as it loosened and Sam relaxed a little more. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Apparently, one of the people who got hypothermia from the cold said that it was coming from a bird." Dean tested the tension in Sam's shoulders and then pressed gently along the curve of Sam's spine. He swept his palms to either side, easing the knots there as well. Sam made a low, happy noise in his throat, and Dean smiled, biting his tongue to keep himself from mocking his little brother.

"A bird making it snow?" Sam asked, his tone going from warm and a little sleepy to sharp and aware.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, surprised. "Do we know something like that?"

"Well, it's nothing I've ever heard of _attacking_ anyone, but it's—ah—" Sam pulled away from Dean's massage and made as if to get up and then blushed crimson, sitting heavily back down. "Could you get me the journal?" Sam asked briskly, as though his face weren't the color of a fire engine, and Dean shrugged.

"No problem." Dean went over to Sam's duffle bag, pulling out the journal and flipping through it himself as he brought it back. Sam had also turned back to his laptop, scrolling through things just a little too fast for Dean to see. He grabbed the journal from Dean's hand without looking at him, and Dean frowned, leaning over Sam's shoulder to look at the pages Sam was moving through.

Sam froze. "Could you—not—do that?"

"Not do what?" Dean asked, confused.

"Not. Loom. Over me."

"Dude," Dean said and took a step back. " _I_ loom? _I'm_ the loomer? Take a look in the mirror, Sasquatch!"

"Dean, please," Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Whatever," he said with a certain sort of finality, and Sam eyed him one last time before he started comparing notes between whatever he'd been looking for online and whatever it was that he'd found in the journal. Dean looked around the room, trying not to loom over Sam, and hummed 'Hells Bells' under his breath.

"Okay," Sam said finally and slid the journal carefully to where Dean could see it. "Right there. It's an Abenaki legend, a nature spirit in the shape of an eagle called _Psônen_."

"I see," Dean said, and he did, reading his father's spidery writing and trying to make sense of it. "It brings snow when it opens its wings?"

"Right," Sam agreed. "But I've never heard of it being violent. As near as I can tell, that's really just the Abenaki legend of how snow is created. I don't know what kind of spirit would use that to manifest; obviously a Native American would have the most information—"

"So what do you think? Is it possible that there's a ghost out there, using the legends he knew when he was alive in order to punish people now?"

"That's possible," Sam said, chewing on his bottom lip. "I'm trying to find out something that links it—hold on."

"What?" Dean asked, shifting restlessly, trying to stop himself from _looming_ over Sam again.

"There was a murder about a month and a half ago—a Native American kid named Atoan Missal. Looks like he was beaten to death by a couple of guys after some school thing."

"That makes sense," Dean agreed. "Do we have addresses for the killers or their families?"

"No," Sam said, shaking his head. "There was only one guy that confessed, and he didn't rat out on anyone else."

"Huh. Are we sure that it wasn't just the one person who did it?"

"It's always possible," Sam said thoughtfully. "But the point is, the killer was supposedly caught and punished. Why are things still going on?"

"There must be something missing. We should probably salt and burn his body just to be careful."

"Looks like he was buried in Nelson Cemetery," Sam said after a moment of scanning a little more information, either an article or an obituary. "It's to the east of here, outside city limits."

"So," Dean drawled, "we'll go there tonight and do a little digging. Nice and easy."

"I hope so," Sam said quietly.

"What? What is it?" Dean asked, a little aggravated. "You don't think it'll be easy at all, do you?"

"Maybe. I'm not saying that it isn't," Sam said hastily, finally getting out of his chair and turning away from Dean to rummage in his duffle bag. "Maybe we should do a little more talking to people."

"Yeah. So, what are we this time? Journalists, maybe?"

"That should work." Sam pulled out his journalist identification and stuck it into his back pocket. "We could either be investigating the strange weather or how crime affects small communities."

"I like that last one," Dean patted himself down to see if he had his identification in the right pocket. "And that way, we'll be able to ask any questions we need, hopefully without getting our asses kicked from six ways to Sunday for being inappropriate."

"Okay." Sam pulled a memo pad and pen from his pocket. "So let me see if I can get some more names from the papers or the police reports, then we'll split up, see if we can get more information."

"Just an hour or two." Dean sits to slide a knife into his boot. "Then we need to get some sleep so that we'll be sharp for digging later tonight."

Sam nodded and went to the laptop for another couple of minutes, scribbling down a couple of names and addresses. He tore the page out of his notebook and handed it to Dean, who glanced at it and then put it in his pocket.

"I'm out of here, then. See you in a little." Dean patted his jacket pockets to make sure that he still had his key to the room, gave his brother one last grin and headed back out into the town.

~*~

The first person on Sam's list for Dean was kind of a stroke of good fortune, as she ended up actually being Barry's cousin, the girl he'd already spoken about briefly. So he ended up in the living room of her apartment, surrounded by pink wallpaper and sparkly glass knick knacks, sipping chamomile tea. Dean hated chamomile tea.

"You said you spoke to my cousin?" she asked, clasping her hands in her lap.

"Yeah. Barry's a pretty cool guy, and he mentioned something about the fact that you survived one of those snow flurries. That's pretty incredible. Can you tell me what it was like?" Dean gave her an encouraging look and leaned a little closer.

"I don't mind," she said. "I've told it to everyone, but I don't really think they believe me."

"Well, why don't you tell me, Sherry—"

" _Shannon_ ," she said sharply.

"Shannon," Dean corrected himself, "why don't you just tell me everything? I'll believe you."

"Well," Shannon began, "I was walking home a couple of days ago, and it was just, you know, a normal night. Kind of mild. And I saw this … "

"You saw … ?" Dean encouraged.

"I saw this — I guess it was a boy, maybe sixteen, seventeen?" Shannon chewed on her bottom lip, smearing a little of her lipstick.

"Anything else you can remember about him? Did he look familiar or anything?" Dean asked.

"Um. I remember he had dark hair, but he was kind of hard to see. It was like—He kept. Flashing?" Shannon looked at him in embarrassment, as though Dean were going to scoff at her.

He nodded instead. "And then what happened?"

"He said something, like, 'Why didn't you tell someone?' And I blinked. He had been over by the cedar tree in Mrs. Proudfeather's yard, but when I opened my eyes again, there was a bird sitting on one of the branches, like an eagle or a falcon. It started flying around me, and the _snow_ came from its _wings_." Shannon gave him a bashful sort of look. "Do you believe me?"

Dean gave her a reassuring, conspiratorial smile. "Yeah, I believe you."

"You're not just saying that?" Shannon asked hopefully. "Because I understand if you are—I know how crazy it sounds—"

"Shannon," Dean said firmly. "I believe you."

"Okay," Shannon said and smiled. She had a pretty smile, sweet and shy.

"Just one last thing, though," Dean said, flipping his little notepad shut. "You said that he told you 'why didn't you tell someone?' What do you think he meant by that?"

Shannon flushed and averted her eyes. "I don't know."

"Okay," Dean said and stood, offering Shannon a hand to shake. "If there's anything else that you can think of, here," and he pulled out a page of his memo pad and scrawled his cell phone number, ripped it off of its spot and handed the paper to her. "Don't hesitate to give me a call, you got that?"

Shannon grasped the piece of paper in her hand gratefully. "I will. Thank you, Mr. Bachman."

With nothing left to say, Dean just gave her another smile and headed out the door, marking a check by her name. She was definitely hiding something, but he didn't know if it had anything to do with the actual case he was following or if it was just something personal. After all, if a random spirit asked him why he was hiding things, he'd be hard pressed to understand which secret the ghost meant in the first place. It could be about anything from sneaking her boyfriend in for a little make out session to crashing her car into a fence and blaming it on a deer or maybe even something as silly as cheating on a test in high school. That's even assuming he was on the right track in his thinking. Dean dug his cell phone out of his pocket and pressed Sam's number on his speed dial, bringing it up to his ear.

"Turner," Sam's voice said briskly.

"Hey, are you finished with your interview yet?" Dean asked, although he had a suspicion that he wasn't, which is why he was using his alias. He hated when he figured something out three seconds after his voice had already come out of his mouth.

"Almost," Sam said, "I'll call you back in a second."

"Okay," Dean agreed and flipped his phone shut. He made his way to the Impala and looked at the second address on Sam's list for him: 1738 Mercer St., home of a kid named Joey Lopez. First victim of the snow bird, lost a couple of toes to it before someone saved his life. Sounded like a lot of fun. Dean was halfway there when Sam finally rang him back.

"So, what'd you find out?" Sam asked.

"I think it's our dead Indian kid," Dean said.

"God, Dean, can you show some respect for anything? Indian and Native American are two completely different indigenous people!"

"I know, I know," Dean rolled his eyes with such violence he actually stopped looking at the road for a second. "Native Americans had Thanksgiving with the pilgrims, Indians don't like pork. I got it, already."

"Oh, my god. You're a moron on purpose, aren't you?" Sam asked him. "There's no way that you could just be this dumb."

"Hey, sticks and stones, little brother," Dean said. "Anyway, did your witness see anything weird? Because Shannon swears there was an Indian kid that turned into the bird with snow coming out of its wings. And I'm pretty sure she wasn't tripping. She seemed a little too wholesome to be doing acid."

"My guy swears he didn't see anything. He was just walking along and then it was snowing. I suppose it's possible for the ghost to have been after someone in particular and this guy just being unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire."

"Great," Dean scoffed. "Ghosts have no consideration for the casualties."

"So, did Shannon say anything else?"

"Yeah, there was one thing." Dean scratched the back of his head. "Before our boy transformed into a bird, he asked her 'Why didn't you tell someone?'"

"He sounds like a local version of the Bloody Mary we encountered."

"So, what? You think if someone's lying about something, then they get their asses frozen off? What does that accomplish, really?"

"I don't know. Maybe someone saw him murdered but didn't report it to the police. Maybe there really was more than one of them there, and he's unhappy that only one of his attackers was caught?"

Dean shook his head, impressed. "And you just think of this stuff off the top of your head, don't you?"

Sam laughed. "Well, someone has to."

"Anyway," Dean said, "I'm at my next guy. I'll see what I can find out with him."

"Good luck," Sam said, and the line disconnected.

Dean got out of the Impala and tugged on his clothing, trying to look at least semi-respectable, and knocked on the door. There was thumping behind the door, as if someone was running down a hallway, and then the door creaked open, a little brown eye peeking out from behind the door. "Hello?"

"Hello," Dean said, bending down a little so that he could look into that brown eye dead on. "Is Joey Lopez here?"

The door clicked shut, and there were more scampering sounds down the hallway, along with a wail of, "Joey, there's someone at the door to seeeee yooou!" Dean ducked his head to hide his grin and scratched the back of his neck. Siblings, little ones, were totally the best. Soon after, there was the slow thump and drag of someone on crutches and uncomfortable with their immobility and the door cracked open again.

"Who are you?" the taller brown eye asked.

Dean gave a business-like nod and flashed his identification, "I'm Al Bachman. I'm a reporter from a couple of towns that way." He pointed west over his shoulder. "We'd noticed all the weird weather you guys were having and wanted to do a little story on it. Can I borrow a moment of your time?"

The brown eye gave him a measuring look, and Dean had to fight back the urge to ask 'what are you staring at, Cyclops?' until the door opened, and the young man before him backed up the hall, leaving the door open as an obvious invitation. Dean closed the door obediently and followed after him, wagging his fingers in greeting at the little kid still peeking at him from behind a corner.

"Mariella!" Joey snapped without turning around. The little girl blushed and vanished around the corner.

Once they were both seated more or less comfortably in the living room, Joey taking the arm chair and Dean perching on the couch, Dean took a breath and opened his notepad. "So," Dean said, "why don't you tell me your version about what happened?"

"There really isn't much to tell," Joey said, looking down at his feet and scratching the back of his head absently. "I was walking around, just going home from my part-time job, and there was a snow flurry. I got lost. I got froze."

"Yeah," Dean said, doodling a picture in the margin of his memo pad, trying to look as if he were serious about taking notes. "You were in town, right? How'd you get lost long enough to get frostbite?"

Joey shrugged. "I really don't know. Near as I can tell, I was blinded by the snow. Couldn't see _anywhere_. I guess I just started wandering in circles. I couldn't figure it out."

"Did you see anything unusual?"

"Like what?" Joey asked defensively.

"I don't know, that's why I was asking you," Dean said nonchalantly. "I was speaking to another person caught in the snow, a Miss Shannon Allred, and she said some kind of interesting things."

Joey snorted derisively. "Is Shannon telling that stupid bird story again? She's nuts—everyone in town knows that."

Dean laughed as though he were in complete agreement with Joey, although inside he seethed a little. It was jerks like this who made it okay when someone was killed because of the color of their skin, or why people were afraid to come forward with what they see because they're too afraid of being mocked for their honesty. It made him sick sometimes when he thought about it. It was small towns like this where horrible things happened and then were covered up just because secretly they're really good townsfolk.

Dean thought of Cassie for the first time in a long while, about how people hated her just because her mother was white and her father was black. How they were the type to come back as ghosts to kill people who had anything to do with what they considered wrong, rather than what was actually, truly evil. He supposed he would've been the poster boy for that kind of wrong-headed thinking if he were normal, probably, but after everything he'd seen—who you loved was nothing. What you thought, who you were— those were the important things. What you _did_ , that was important, too.

"So you didn't see any crazy snow birds or ghosts?" Dean contested congenially, giving Joey a smile as though anything he said was just between them, like they were buddies.

"I'm not as crazy as some people," Joey said stiffly.

Dean nodded and looked around the room, just out of a habit of casing every joint he had the fortune and misfortune to enter. He noticed a silvery thing out of the corner of his eye and made an inquisitive noise.

"What're you looking at?" Joey asked.

Dean shook his head. "I was just looking at that gorgeous turquoise bird pendant you have there. Where'd you get it?"

Joey shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I found it," he said. "You find a lot of stuff like that around here. What with all the Indians around. They make a lot of stuff to sell to the tourists and things like that. You know how it is."

"I sure do," Dean said with a grin. "Well, thanks for your time. If there's anything else you can remember about what happened to you, here's my number." Dean wrote his number on a piece of paper, just as he'd done for Shannon, and passed it to Joey. "You can reach me any time."

 

"Thanks," Joey said, and as Dean stood, raised his hand a little, as though to stop him. "Do you think the flurries will stop?"

Dean shrugged. "I couldn't really say. I'm not a meteorologist. But I figure, if we're getting snow in October? The colder it gets, I guess the worse it's going to be."

Joey went pale under his Arizona tan and nodded. "I see."

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," Dean said in a soothing voice, but inside he was alternately wishing Joey would _break_ already and give him something he could use and laughing maniacally because it was obvious the guy was worried about something, and if it wasn't worry over a ghostly snow bird, he'd eat the Impala's leather seat cover. "After all, it's just some weird weather. And as long as you're careful, you'll be okay."

"You're right, Mr. Bachman. Thanks," Joey said, looking a little less relieved than his words implied. "If I think of anything else, I'll definitely let you know."

"Thanks. Have a good day, kid," Dean said, nice and professional, and let himself out, going back to the Impala. The last two names on his list weren't at home, so Dean shrugged and made his way back to the hotel to wait for Sam.

It didn't take long for Sam to pop back up; mostly it was enough for Dean to shuck off his jacket and flop onto his back with the remote control to the television, to watch a daytime soap opera or two. He secretly missed the vibrating bed he found in that last hotel in Idaho—it should be a rule or something that each hotel room should have one of those.

"Quit fantasizing about the vibrating beds, Dean." Sam's crisp, prissy voice washed over him as Sam let himself into their hotel room.

Dean couldn't resist a smarmy grin. "How'd you know that's what I was thinking about?"

"You're on a bed, with a wistful look on your face, while," Sam shot a look at the television as he passed it, "'The Young and the Restless' is on. I figure you're not mooning over that old guy there, so it was a simple matter of deduction."

"'A simple matter of deduction.' Can we be any stuffier there?" Dean asked, laughing.

"Excuse me for paying attention to having a decent vocabulary," Sam said stuffily as he flopped down into a chair.

Dean grinned, filled to the brim with affection for his younger brother. "How'd you know this was 'The Young and the Restless'? Done a bit of TV watching while I was gone?"

Sam turned pink and resolutely faced his laptop. "Sometimes there's just nothing else on."

"Yeah, uh huh," Dean said, sitting up and looking at the back of Sam's head. "Admit it. You _like_ that old guy's storyline there."

"Dean," Sam said, the tone of his voice just as good at showing his impatience as his long suffering sigh, "shut up. Did you find anything else that might be interesting?"

"I don't really think so," Dean sighed, resting his head back against his pillows again. "Just that people suck."

"Well, that's nothing new."

"What about you?" Dean asked, out of rote curiosity. "Did you find out anything interesting?"

"Not really. No one really wants to talk about it. The best lead we have is what that girl Shannon gave you. But it should be okay once we salt and burn the kid's body."

"And there aren't any weird cycles of this sort of thing happening here? Just to be sure we're going after the right thing?"

"Dude, if there were any other options, I would have mentioned them already," Sam said a little testily. Dean raised his hands in defense, even though Sam hadn't looked at him and he was facing the ceiling anyway.

"Okay then. I'm taking a nap. If you're going to go to sleep, too, just remember to set the alarm for us, okay?"

"When do I ever forget, really?" Sam asked, turning for the first time to look directly at him.

Dean arched an eyebrow and stared right back. "You never used to forget my pie, either. Just saying."

"Will you let that go, please? It was one pie. Once," Sam said, casting his eyes to the ceiling as well.

"If I let it slide once, then you'll just keep doing it, and I'm always going to have to get my own pie _forever_ ," Dean said woefully.

Sam laughed and tossed his memo pad at Dean's head. "You're such a jerk."

"Takes a bitch to know one," Dean mumbled, closing his eyes for a nap.

~*~

He really should have expected the dreams. The memories sat on him like a weight on his chest and shoulders, flashing on the back of his eyelids like a movie that he was starring in, and he could never get away from the taste and touch and texture of the pain. He would do anything to make it stop.

"Dean!"

Dean bolted upright, hands flailing into the air as he went from hell-filled sleep to darkness—not true darkness, he realized as he shook his way into wakefulness; there was light by a lamp on his left, and Sam had Dean's shoulder in his hand, shaking him gently.

"I'm up, I'm up," Dean said gruffly, rubbing a hand across his face as though he could wipe the dreams away.

"Dean," Sam said softly, and he sat down next to him, still not removing his hand from Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean said, making an effort not to shake Sam's hand off—Sam's hand was uncomfortably close to Castiel's handprint, and it made him a little edgy.

"You can talk to me if you need to, you know that, right?" Sam fidgeted a little closer. Dean stared at his leg, at where Sam's thigh was pressed against his, and nodded.

"I know," Dean breathed and then stood. Sam's hand clung tight to his arm for a second before falling away. "Give me a minute, and we'll head off to the cemetery."

"No problem," Sam said, and Dean fled to the bathroom to do his business. When he looked in the mirror, he couldn't recognize himself, and the hate and shame flared until he was gasping for air that didn't feel tainted.

It might have lasted three minutes or three hours, but Dean finally managed to get himself and his memories back under control and headed back out into the main room. Sam was double checking his duffle bag for the things they would need — the salt and the gasoline and other implements — so Dean supposed that either he hadn't been in there as long as he thought, or Sam was just really good at trying to make him feel more comfortable.

"Thanks," Dean said, and Sam nodded to let Dean know he'd heard him but didn't push. Dean didn't know how it was possible, but he loved Sam just a little more for that. "We ready to go?"

"Whenever you are," Sam said, zipping up the duffle bag and hefting it in his fist.

"Okay, then. Let's head out." Dean snagged the Impala's keys from the nightstand and headed out the door.

When they got to the cemetery, they jumped the chained fence with the quiet grace of practiced grave robbers and began the search for Atoan Missal's grave. Dean wandered around through row after row of the dead, flashing his light on every other headstone now and again. It was Sam who found it, of course; he was a lot better at finding the boring things, even though Dean hated to admit that. Sam had sort of a scary kind of single-minded intensity that Dean found hard to personally maintain, even though it was often useful.

Sam flashed his flashlight in the pattern that they had agreed on: two short, two long, a pause, and then one short and one long again, and Dean headed over in a loping, ground-eating pace. When he managed to get over to Sam, Sam had already begun digging, although the ground was hard and rocky due to the way the crazy weather had been. Dean pushed Sam over to the side. Sam handled inactivity better than Dean did, and he shot a look at Dean that Dean pretended not to notice. He still passed over the shovel with no questions. Dean would have denied it if asked, but he was actually fond of the labor part of a salt and burn. He wasn't God's gift to research, but at least he knew how to work.

About an hour and a half in, they were more than five feet down into the ground. Now that there was a definite goal in sight, Dean was digging with even more vigor. Of course, that's when things went sour.

"Dean," Sam said urgently, and Dean stopped digging, resting an arm on the wooden shovel handle and wiping the sweat and dirt from his face with his sleeve as he looked over at his brother. Sam gestured at his right, a little ways away and under a tree, at the ghost of a Native American boy, teenage, young in the face, and looking so very sad. Sam nabbed the shotgun they had brought just for this sort of eventuality, cocked and aimed it. The boy didn't move, just watched them, and Dean ignored him, continuing to dig.

"If you're going to say something," Dean said to the ghost, off-handed and nonchalant, "then you should just say it and go to the happy hunting ground or whatever."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" the ghost asked, and it felt like ice water had been splashed down his back. Dean shot a glance at the ghost without stopping his digging to verify that the ghost was looking at him. He was. Then he turned to Sam, his eyes dark and sorrowful. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Sam briefly looked away, glancing at the ground before retraining the gun on the ghost, although it hadn't moved. It flickered, and Dean began to dig even faster, unnerved at the fact that it was just standing there. Normally, hostile spirits were already up in their business of punishing them for whatever faults they were believed to have. They normally weren't so measuring, so full of gravity.

As Dean was thinking that, the Native American boy flickered one last time and then transformed into a bird that was, quite frankly, absolutely beautiful, pure white with deep blue markings around the ends of its feathers; Dean wanted to say it was an eagle, but he didn't know enough about birds to give a definite name. It was sitting on the bare oak branch, and Dean thought maybe they were being given the opportunity to confess their secrets before it was too late.

For a minute, words that fell short of really describing hell and his actions and the way it felt to be saved, to be _redeemed_ tangled on his tongue, begging for release, but considering the fact that it fell short in his mind made it impossible to even comprehend trying to use speech to bring it out in the open, and he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

He couldn't say anything at all.

Dean saw Sam look at him, but he also remained silent. Dean braced for an explosion and wasn't really disappointed by that ghost. It opened its wings and flew; from its feathers drifted a snow so cold that it stung where it touched Dean's bare flesh. When Dean took a moment to wipe it away, so it would stop distracting him from his digging, he noticed that it left a little red mark, as though it had genuinely scalded him with its frozen temperature.

Sam fired off a salt round at the bird, and Dean trusted Sam's aim, although he couldn't take a moment from his task to see if the salt had connected. It felt like it was too late, though—the snow storm was already beginning to rage around them, and Dean dug with a growing desperation as he went minutes without striking the coffin for the body.

"Dean, come on!" Sam cried, firing off another shot. "What are you doing over there?"

"I don't know what's going on!" Dean dropped the shovel and scrambled on his hands and knees to thrust his hands in the dirt and pull it out in heaping armfuls. But there was still nothing there, and Dean swore helplessly. "I can't find a thing!"

Sam dropped into the hole beside him, digging frantically, but even with his brother shivering at his side, he didn't have any better luck.

"Damn it!" Sam spat, and Dean flicked the collar of his jacket up, the back of his neck and the tips of his ears already icy and numb.

"He wasn't buried, Sam!" Dean shouted over the rising, freezing wind, and hoisted himself out of the hole, reaching out a hand to help Sam up. "He wasn't buried. We need to get out of here!"

"I can't feel my fingers," Sam confessed, teeth chattering miserably.

Dean squinted against the blinding snow, unwilling to confess that his fingers had disappeared minutes ago when he'd been clawing at the ground, and shivered desperately. He snagged his fingers in the cuff of Sam's jacket (and had to double check to make sure he had hold of him) and tugged him forward, following the line of tombstones by feel, each piece of stone pressing against his legs serving as a kind of rough road map. He could understand how it would be so easy to get lost, even with the city all around you, because in the snow it felt like you were the only person in a hundred miles, and pushing forward seemed almost pointless. But Sam was depending on him, and Dean refused to let him down, refused to lose to a stupid ghost who didn't realize what kind of secrets he had, and why it was better that Dean _not_ tell his brother the truth. Besides, he was a hunter; if civilians could get out with a little bit of frost bite, then he sure as hell would get him and Sam out with nothing more than cold feet.

Dean could feel Sam huddling against his back, fingers clenched in his, and he could feel by the way Sam moved that he felt he should take point, maybe because he was so much bigger, but that was a no go. Sam was the little brother. Dean was the big brother. It was simple as that. They finally reached the fence detailing the boundary of the cemetery, and Dean pulled Sam forward and pressed his hands to the metal, even though that felt like it burned. At this point, it was a relief that they could feel anything. Sam clambered up and over the fence, Dean assumed, because he couldn't see when he dropped to the other side.

"Dean," Sam yelled. "Come on!"

Dean vaulted over the top and slammed back against the fence, the skin of his fingers caught and freezing against the metal. He got his foot pressed against the bars of the fence and roared into the oncoming storm as he wrenched himself backward. There were fingers tugging at him again, pulling him away from the whorled cast iron, and Dean could barely feel Sam's arms, even as he could feel the pressure of Sam's arms flexing around him. His jacket was caught on the spikes at the top of the fence for a second, but Sam had him, fumbling over him with the lack of grace of the terminally frozen, groping for his jacket and unhooking it from where it was stuck. Dean pulled again, his muscles straining, and he felt the rip of skin, a bright flash of pain, and blood freezing into ice on his palms. Then they were running, clinging to each other again, until they literally fell against the Impala, suddenly shining black and sturdy in the painfully white snow. Dean scrabbled for his keys as Sam felt his way to the other side of the car, teeth chattering hard enough that he was catching his tongue on every other bite, and it took him a couple of minutes longer than he wanted to fit the key into the keyhole and open the door.

Dean fell into the driver's seat with a harsh sound, the gear shift slamming heavily into his ribs, but he didn't allow himself to feel the pain as he struggled to his knees, trying to force his frozen fingers to grasp the peg at the window to unlock the door for Sam. There was blood oozing everywhere, almost like a slushie, and Dean's stomach heaved. On the third try, his fingers spasmed, hooking the lock in the way he wanted, and he unlocked the door in one fierce pull. Sam bolted the door open and fell against Dean, smacking his head hard into Dean's shoulder as he slammed the door shut behind him. They shivered together in silence as the storm raged outside the Impala, their shared body heat slowly thawing out their extremities. Dean rested his head on Sam's shoulder, gasping in air that wasn't painful with cold, even as his shoulder was throbbing from where Sam had accidentally smacked into him, and patted his brother down with the backs of his hands, just beginning to feel like something more than cold at the ends of his fingers.

"Are you okay, Sammy?" he asked, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. "Can you feel everything?"

"Give me a second, Dean," Sam gasped, and Dean could feel Sam's hands bend against him as he tested the feeling in his fingers.

Dean sat back into the driver's seat, scooting around until he was in proper driving position instead of kneeling disrespectfully in the Impala's seat. He scrounged for the keys, which he'd dropped in between the seats when he had struggled to get Sam in the car, and cried out, the floor rough against his torn hands. Sam's head whipped around, his eyes growing large as he saw Dean's palms, and immediately pushed him into the backseat, scrabbling for the keys himself. He stuck the key into the ignition and started Dean's baby, shivering again as cold air fluttered in from the vents. Dean climbed into the passenger seat and turned the heater on high, shutting the vents for a couple of minutes to let the car warm up. Only after that was finished did he turn and shamelessly cuddle a little longer with Sam.

"You haven't answered me yet, punk," Dean warned, although he was comforted by the thump of Sam's heart that he could hear from where they were pressed together.

"I'm okay," Sam answered, although he didn't seem any more inclined to move away from Dean as Dean was to move away from Sam. "Fingers, toes, all checked in and accounted for."

"Good," Dean said through still chattering teeth. "That's good. Christ, I'm cold."

Sam reached his hands into Dean's coat, circling his arms around Dean and pressing as close as possible, even though with Sam's height and the gear shift stuck between them, it was kind of awkward and uncomfortable. Dean drew his legs up into his seat, offering a silent apology to his girl as he returned Sam's embrace, unable to even mock a little bit about how ridiculous of a girl moment it was to be hugging. He was friggin' freezing. Being this cold obviously allowed for a little bending of his boundaries.

He was half asleep, lulled by the purring of the car engine beneath him and Sam's warm arms around him, almost forgetting about the heater until Sam stirred restlessly. Dean reluctantly pulled away for a second to check the vents and breathed a blissful sigh as blessedly warm air flooded out against them.

"So," he finally said. "That sucked."

Sam laughed mirthlessly. "You're telling me."

"So," Dean said slowly. "I'm thinking that we'll drive—really slowly—back to the hotel, maybe do a little more research on the Atoan Missal kid. Maybe some more on his family."

"Yeah. That'd be a good idea. Especially since, according to my witnesses at least, the snow won't follow us." They pulled away, and Sam rested his hands on the steering wheel, taking a moment longer to greedily soak up the warmth.

"Any idea what he was asking you about?" Dean asked eventually.

Sam tucked his arms underneath his armpits and stared out the window. "No idea. You?"

Dean laughed. "I have no clue," he said and then he fell silent as they began the slow, arduous process of getting out of the storm.

They had just gotten back to the hotel when Sam said, "We left the hole, and we forgot the shovel and the shotgun."

"Frankly, Sam," Dean breathed, staring at the enticing image of their hotel room door. "I don't give a damn."

"Just saying."

"I got it," Dean said and got out of the car.

~*~

After a long, lazy, hot as possible shower, Sam wrapped up Dean's hands and Dean made Sam promise to have something hot — either coffee or hot chocolate — waiting for him when he got back, and headed back toward the cemetery again. Sam had wanted to go with him, but Dean nixed the idea with a glare. After what had happened, he wasn't willing to risk Sam to this thing again, and it would be a lot faster if he just went there alone to nab their things and fill that hole back in. Plus, after he got all dirty playing in the grave, it would be a great excuse for another hot shower, and Dean was nothing if not a hedonist.

It looked like the caretaker and anyone who might have been in the cemetery at this time of night had been scared away by the freakish weather, so Dean actually found it a lot easier to fill the hole in and lug their shovel and shotgun back to the Impala, to toss them into the back seat after a cursory examination for dirt or snow (the Impala didn't have to get dirt or snow in her unless she absolutely had to) and headed back to the hotel.

As promised, the moment that Dean came back into the hotel room, he was struck by the smell of warm chocolate, sitting at Sam's elbow on the table; two cups. Dean made a sound of wordless appreciation and grabbed the fuller one, sitting in the chair next to Sam and drinking the hot chocolate in greedy gulps.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, as if he wasn't really concerned, and even though he was shooting glances at Dean every couple of seconds and it totally belied his nonchalant attitude, Dean was still a little grateful for his tone. There was aspirin on the table, and Dean grabbed them, his hands awkward; he threw his head back and swallowed them before picking up his mug again in both hands.

"I'm fine, dude. I'm built tough," Dean boasted, even if he spoiled his image by sucking down hot chocolate like it was crack. "Did you find anything while I was gone?"

"I found some information about the wake," Sam said slowly, clicking through a couple of pages.

"So, do you think we should talk to his parents, or should we talk to the funeral people?"

"I think we should ask the funeral director in charge of the burial," Sam decided. "If they presided over a ritual of closure instead of an actual funeral, then we might get more out of them than having to bother the kid's parents. I would really prefer to leave them as a last resort. It kind of sucks to be forced to talk about their dead son when they were a victim of a hate crime."

"So what if it's not the body? What if it turns out that the body's been cremated?"

Sam shook his head. "Then we need to find what object it is that he's still hanging around in. Obviously."

"Well, we can't do anything about it now," Dean decided, and swallowed the last of his hot chocolate before standing. "I'm taking another shower."

"Be my guest," Sam said, gesturing toward the bathroom again.

Dean shrugged off his jacket and dropped it on the back of his chair before he kicked off his shoes, heading back into the bathroom and turning the hot water all the way up. He un-bandaged his hands and stepped into the shower, letting the water pound more warmth into his muscles. Eventually, the dirt slicked off, and the water began to get cooler in cranky bursts of water pressure, so Dean grabbed a towel and went back into the main room. Sam helped him wrap his hands again, and then Dean grabbed his boxers and a T-shirt, tossing his second batch of dirty clothes of the day in the corner. He decided that he was still a little too cold, so he put on a pair of jeans over his boxers. Sam was standing between their beds, looking back and forth between the mattresses.

"What is it?" Dean demanded. "Did you find a pea in your bed, princess?"

"I'm still cold," Sam said plaintively, crossing his arms over his chest and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

"So put some more clothes on," Dean said, a little more sympathetic than he let on. He was still frozen to all hell, too. And his hands hurt like a son of a bitch, even with the painkillers.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"Dude, are you five?" Dean asked, beginning to laugh, but at Sam's serious expression, he swallowed the sound, the laugh sticking in his throat.

"No," Sam said stubbornly. "But can I sleep with you anyway?"

Dean shook his head and slid under the covers, watching Sam watch him for just a second before he sighed and patted the other side of the bed. "The moment you start stealing the blankets," Dean warned, "I _will_ l kick you out. You got that, Sasquatch?"

Sam grinned and turned off the lights, snuggling under the covers without another word. Dean closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep; even though he wouldn't admit it, it was comforting having Sam cuddling up against his back, warm and solid. It reminded him that he wasn't supposed to be cold anymore and helped a lot to get him there.

~*~

Dean and Sam decided to go over to the library the next morning, just to double check the newspapers and make sure Sam wasn't overlooking anything by using the online archive almost exclusively. Fortunately for them, the closest library had recently upgraded to microfilm, so Sam looked at that information while Dean looked at the actual newspaper copies, preferring to hold the original thing. Microfilm always made his eyes tired.

Dean looked with a half-hearted eye at the paper, not seeing anything useful about Atoan Missal that he could really sink his teeth into. Nothing about a cremation, just a front page splash about a murder in Peach Springs, some opinion columns about the nature of the modern teenager, and what it was like to grow up in a culture of violence that gave children skewed notions of what was right and wrong. There was the obituary, another follow up piece on how his friends and family were holding up under the strain of their loss, and how they'd risen up against the crushing pressure of loss to make a foundation in his name, educating about race and humanity and why hate crimes were hurtful not only to the victims and their families, but also to the perpetrator and their families as well. Dean kind of felt like it was all psychological mumbo jumbo. A culture of violence. Whatever.

Dean sighed and kicked back in his seat, propping his boots on the table in front of him. Sam shot a glance over in his direction and heaved a heavy, pointed sigh, but Dean ignored him. His hands hurt, he wasn't finding anything, and it took five friggin' minutes to turn a page, so he just tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. He was out of patience, and without anything to distract him, his brain started circling around the whole issue of the Apocalypse again; he'd mocked Sam a little for the way that he kept thinking about things even though he couldn't change them, but the truth was that Dean was as guilty of that himself.

Dean's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he clunked his feet to the floor, thankful for the interruption. He tapped Sam's shoulder to let him know that he was taking the call and headed out of the building, flipping the phone up and connecting the call as he went. "Hello?" he answered.

"Mr. Bachman? Oh god, oh god, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry—"

Dean stopped on the sidewalk, trying to hear over the sound of wind rushing in his ear. "What—who is—Shannon, is that you?"

"Mr. Bachman, I have to tell you—oh, god, I'm so _cold_ —I have to tell you that when I was sixteen I saw my neighbor, Mr. Feldman, and he—"

"Hold on, Shannon, I'm at the library, I'll be _right there_ —" Dean said, hurrying to the Impala and throwing her into drive.

He squealed out of the parking lot and sped to her apartment, Shannon babbling in his ear the entire time. He wasn't actually as close as he promised; Shannon's apartment building was about a half an hour to the west, so he took the road faster than he should have, but luck was with him. Just as he was about to pull into the parking lot, the sound of the wind through the telephone stopped, leaving a silence so sudden and thick it made his ears ring.

"Shannon?" Dean's heart pounded in his throat as he jumped out of the Impala and ran up to her second floor apartment.

"Mr. Bachman?" Shannon asked quietly, her voice shaky. The door to her apartment flew open just as he stopped in front of it, and there was Shannon, the phone still at her ear. Her hair was iced over with snowflakes, and her lips were blue. She dropped her arm to her side, cell phone falling to the ground without her notice, and Dean flipped his phone shut, reaching for her.

She curled up against him, dry sobs rattling in her throat, and Dean briskly rubbed her arms, gritting his teeth against the pain as he tried to chafe some warmth back into her. She felt like an icicle, and Dean shrugged off his jacket to put around her shoulders.

"Are you okay?" he asked her, and she nodded.

"I'm cold," she said softly, her teeth chattering, and Dean took a moment to look through her apartment, noticing the fine layer of frost that coated everything.

"What happened?" He put an arm around her shoulder again. "Come on, I'm going to take you to the hospital, so go ahead and tell me the story while we're going."

Shannon nodded obediently, ice crystals breaking off from her hair to crunch under their feet. "I told you my secret," she said, "and it went away."

"Wait, are you talking about the bird ghost thing? Did it show up in your apartment? Why did you call me?"

Shannon flushed and winced at the feeling of heat suffusing her face; it looked painful. "You're the only one who believed me," Shannon said. "What was I going to tell my cousin, or my uncle? That the bird was in my apartment? They would have just laughed at me. They did laugh at me."

"Okay," Dean said, and they were at the Impala by this time, so he opened the passenger side door and coaxed her to take a seat. Dean's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered it as he went to his side of the car.

"Dean, where the hell are you?" Sam asked immediately.

"Sam, I'm with Shannon."

"What? Why? What's going on?"

"Shannon was that call that I got, the one I took at the library," Dean said as he brought the Impala into drive and began to pull out of his haphazard parking position. He covered the mouthpiece and looked at Shannon apologetically. "Sorry, this is my partner. Give me just a minute." At Shannon's half-nod, Dean turned the heat on low and turned the vents away from her. He didn't know much about hypothermia, but ice crystals in your hair was a damn bad sign regardless. He didn't want her to get hurt any more than she already was. "I'm taking her to the hospital, Sam. She's practically frozen to the core. I'll tell you more once I get her taken care of, okay?"

"You better. I think I found some information too. We'll touch bases later," Sam agreed, and Dean hung up, sticking the phone back into his pocket.

"So what happened?" Dean asked, shooting a look at Shannon. She didn't look good; her lips were blue, her skin waxy and pale. Her head lulled against the window, and he took a second to shake her shoulder gently, just to get her attention back. "Shannon?"

"Hmm?" She struggled to turn her gaze toward him.

"What happened?" Dean demanded, and waited until she gave him something more than a blurry look. "What made your apartment look like that?"

"What happened to your hands?" Shannon asked softly.

"Don't worry about it." Dean gave her a bright smile. "Stay with me, you got that? Can you answer my question?"

"He—the guy, bird, whatever—I was reading a book and went to get myself something to drink, and he was in my kitchen. And he asked me that question again and—and he touched my cheek. I was so cold—I thought I'd been cold in the storm, but this was a million times worse, like my _blood_ was freezing. And that's when I knew that I was going to die if I didn't tell someone." Shannon rested her head against the window, tears dangling on her eyelashes. "You were the only one who believed me the first time, so I thought, maybe that would be enough. If I told you what I'd seen."

Dean tried frantically to remember the secret that she'd told him, but he'd been so intent on trying to save her that he hadn't actually listened to what she said. "Do we need to get the police involved with this?" he asked neutrally, thinking that was enough of a middle road that she could take it out of his hands.

Shannon shook her head and pushed her wet hair out of her face. Dean turned the heater up a little higher, pointing the vent her way. The occasional shudders that Dean had been seeing had given way to full blown shivering, and he supposed that was a good sign, too. "I don't think so. I don't think there's anything that they could really do anyway. Mr. Feldman committed suicide a couple of weeks after that. Everyone always thought that he died of grief, but I … I knew better. I just didn't think it mattered anymore." Shannon rested her head against the headrest of her seat and sighed as the hospital came into view. "I didn't dream that, did I?" she whispered.

"Would I be taking you to the hospital if you were dreaming this?" Dean asked.

Shannon laughed. "I don't know. You're pretty hot. You being here could totally be my subconscious picking up on the cute reporter I saw earlier today."

"And you realize that you just called me hot, right?" Dean asked with a grin.

"My brain was just frozen into an icicle," Shannon said pragmatically. "You can't take anything I say seriously."

"Got it." Dean parked, dragging Shannon over to the emergency room entrance. He passed her over to a nurse who had a hundred questions, for Shannon and for him as well, and it was nothing that he could answer without giving a few hundred lies. He feigned a distressing need to use the bathroom and snuck his way out of there. Once he was safely back on the road again, he thumbed his cell phone open and called Sam, who picked up immediately.

"Do I get an explanation of what's been going on yet?" Sam asked. "You scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry," Dean said, and he was. "I'm on my way back to the library, and I'll tell you what happened when I get back. What about the stuff you were looking up?"

Sam sighed. "Well, I have confirmation that he wasn't buried; his family had him cremated but asked to keep it quiet, because Atoan's friends wanted some sort of memorial to remember him by. His parents had enough money set aside to pay for cremation, but there was some sort of collection at the school where they raised enough to pay for the stone and the plot. Sounds like he was really popular."

"How'd you miss this the first time, Sammy?" Dean asked, half teasing, and he could almost hear Sam shake his head.

"I don't know. It was really hard to find, buried in a report that had mention of his death certificate and a couple of other official papers from the funeral home."

"Great," Dean said and made it to the library in record time. Sam was standing outside the library, the phone to his ear and a pensive expression on his face. Sam opened the door and got into the car as he and Dean both closed their cell phones in a move so smooth it was almost synchronized.

"So," Sam said, "it's your turn, now."

"Yeah, so like I said, it was Shannon. She called, and there was the sound of wind howling in the background, and she told me a secret about a neighbor. It sounded like the storm was there with her, in her apartment."

"He's finally escalating," Sam said, and Dean nodded in agreement.

"So, anyway, apparently confessing to me did the trick, because she was still alive when I got there, but she was frozen to the _core_ , man. And everything in her apartment was iced over with frost. She got lucky."

"Damn lucky," Sam breathed, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "So, any ideas about what's keeping him tied here? Because I'm out of ideas."

I'm thinking," Dean said and drove aimlessly for a few minutes, no destination in mind.

"It's interesting," Sam said thoughtfully. "It feels like he's giving us all second chances. He's kind of an unusual spirit, isn't he? Kind of like Molly."

"He's a spirit that's trying to kill people by freezing them," Dean said, unforgiving. "Nothing like Molly at all. And it creeps me out when you talk about ghosts like they're still people."

"We're not having this argument right now, Dean. Not while we're on a hunt."

"Who's arguing?" Dean asked but went quiet anyway. He tried to think through all of the clues they'd gotten so far, not that there were all that many of them. It seemed like an open and shut case: they had the victim, the motive, the method, even had the damn thing come after them personally, but what the heck were they supposed to do to find the item keeping him on earth? It had to be something that was still in town, too. If it had been anything that his parents had kept as a memento, he would have followed them, not sticking around these parts. "Hey, Sammy," Dean asked, and Sam looked at Dean, waiting for his question to continue. "How did they capture the guy who killed him?"

"From what I read, he just got himself drunk and turned himself into the sheriff."

"And what did the guy say he did it for?"

"No one's really sure why he did it," Sam said, a frown beginning to crease between his eyebrows. "They don't know if it really was a hate crime, although that's what everyone else assumed, or if it was a crime of passion or just sheer bad luck. Why? Do you have something in mind?"

"I might," Dean said evasively, trying to get the idea firm in his head before saying anything to Sam. "Did you get a picture of the kid, by any chance?"

"Dean," Sam said in exasperation, "you were looking at the newspapers just like I was. Are you really saying that you don't remember?"

"I'm sorry, I've been busy saving lives. I don't have the space to remember what a grainy photograph looked like. Humor me."

Sam rolled his eyes and pulled a sheaf of papers out from the inside of his jacket, leafing through them. Dean pulled off to the side of the road as Sam pulled a couple of sheets of paper out from the main body of printed material and passed them over to Dean. Dean stared at them for a long time, frowning, something he couldn't remember niggling at the back of his brain. In the pictures, he was absolutely, boringly normal. Hair parted to the side, dark eyes, bright smile.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "Care to fill me in?"

And then, suddenly, Dean had it. "That, right there," he said, jabbing a finger at the picture. "Can you see what that is?" Dean passed Sam that first picture, taking a closer look at the second one. "It's here, too."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, looking down at the photo. "And?"

" _And_ ," Dean said with something approaching confidence, "don't you think it looks a lot like a pendant in the shape of a bird?"

Sam caught on quickly. "You think this is still around? That this might be what he's attached to?"

"Even better, I think I've seen this before. I think if I'm right, then we just got a hell of a lot of luck."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Sam asked, taking the pictures back from Dean. "Let's get started!"

~*~

When Dean and Sam got to Joey Lopez's house, everything looked normal, still and very quiet. Dean caught Sam's eye and Sam nodded, getting out of the car and going to the trunk to grab a pistol and some salt-packed bullets. Dean followed him out of the car and headed up the front walk to the door.

He knocked.

There wasn't a thump or scuttle or any sound from the hallway this time, and fear clenched cold in Dean's gut. He tested the door knob as Sam came up behind him and found it open. Sam passed Dean a crowbar, the only thing Dean was able to wrap his hand around, and Dean pushed the door open, stealthily making his way inside as he listened for anything unusual.

They snuck into the living room, and the turquoise bird was exactly where he'd previously seen it, on the mantle, sticking out from behind a picture of Joey and Mariella. Dean set the crowbar against the fireplace and picked the bird up. It was warm in his hand, just from the heat of the fire in the grate beneath the mantle. On the underside, engraved into the soft silver, were the initials _AM_.

"Bingo," Dean murmured.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" Joey bellowed from the doorway, and Sam and Dean spun around, whipping their pistols out.

Sam recovered first. "We're here to save your life."

"Yeah," Dean added. "You're about to become an ice cube because of this." He dangled the turquoise bird by one wing.

"Put my stuff down and leave before I call the cops," Joey gritted out, gesturing at them with one of his crutches.

Mariella peeked out from the hallway, her mouth opening in an outraged gasp as she saw Dean with the turquoise bird. "Hey!" she said shrilly. "Put it down! That's mine!"

"Mariella," Joey said, never moving his eyes from Sam and Dean for a second, "don't say anything."

"Wait." Sam shot a look in Dean's direction, fumbling for the picture in his jacket. "We're not trying to steal anything, not really. See here?" He waved the paper at Joey, who took it, still keeping his eyes trained on them. "This bird here is the exact same one that was owned by Atoan Missal. It's responsible for keeping his spirit here."

"You're crazy," Joey spat. "Spirits? Seriously? And you"He jerked his head toward Dean—"aren't you a reporter?"

"No." Dean took a deep breath and shook his head. "I'm not a reporter. The point is, you're keeping one hell of a secret, and unless we destroy this, you're going to be frozen into an ice cube, and then you'll be dead, and who's gonna care for your sister there?" Dean looked steadily at Joey, trying his best to project sincerity and trustworthiness. He sucked so hard at this part; he just wanted to get back to the hunt.

"Get out," Joey growled, standing protectively in front of Mariella. "Get out or I swear to god I will—"

"Watch out!" Sam yelled, and Dean scrabbled for his crowbar when Atoan appeared next to Mariella. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek and Mariella gasped at the touch, her breath coughing out in a cloud. She started to shiver, her skin going pale and blue hued. Dean got a shot off at Atoan, and the ghost flickered and disappeared.

"Oh, god," Joey said, trying to turn to Mariella and overbalancing. He collapsed to the ground as his crutches clattered to the floor. His sister crouched miserably on the floor with him, shuddering violently.

Dean shook his head. "Damn it, you weren't the one who saw him die, were you?" He tossed the turquoise bird over to Sam, who was bending to get the fire even hotter, and strode over to Joey and Mariella. "Dude, I'm sorry, but we've got to know. When you were walking home, when you got stuck in that storm, was Mariella with you?"

"Yes," Joey gasped brokenly, dragging Mariella over to him and chafing her arms hopelessly. "Yes, she was with me."

Dean swung back toward Sam. "Sammy, are we almost finished? We don't need to do any fancy Indian chanting, do we? We can just throw it in?"

"Right, you're right, we're almost ready—" Sam turned away from the fire for just a second, and before Dean had the chance to move, Atoan was there, his fingers on Sam's cheek. Sam fell to a knee, breath steaming out in clouds of white. His fingers shook and spasmed; the turquoise bird fell from his grip.

Dean scrambled to Sam's side and snagged the bird from the ground, smashing it on the marble as a satisfactory first strike, and then clambered over Sam's shivering body to throw the turquoise bird into the flame.

Dean glared spitefully up at the ghost, hovering protectively over his brother. The ghost stared at him for a second and then brought his hand up toward Dean's cheek. Dean could feel the iciness of his touch but refused to flinch. He darted a look at the bird pendant in the fireplace. Just as Atoan's ghost was about to touch him, the bird began to melt. Atoan clutched above his heart, where the pendant had lain when he was alive, and flamed out.

Immediately, Sam and Mariella gasped in a breath. Dean ran a comforting hand down Sam's back, and he felt as warm as he normally did. Then Dean turned to Mariella and Joey to make sure they were all right. Joey hugged Mariella, squeezing her tightly, and Dean sighed a breath of relief, sitting heavily on the couch.

Someone opened the front door and walked in, heading down the hall. It was an attractive brunette lady, obviously Joey and Mariella's mother. Dean huffed a laugh; he'd been beginning to wonder if they had parents.

"Is everything all right here, Joey?" the woman asked, and Joey caught Dean's eye.

Dean shrugged and looked over at Sam, who was just now uncurling from his crouch.

"Yeah, Mom," Joey said nonchalantly. "Everything's fine."

~*~

"So, you guys do this all the time?" Joey asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "This was actually pretty simple, considering."

"I just want to get one thing straight," Dean said, looking candidly at Joey. "It was Mariella that saw Atoan being murdered, but his big theme had to do with keeping secrets. If you knew, then it really wasn't her secret anymore."

"I didn't exactly know," Joey clarified. Dean had discovered that he was a little more likable now than his first impression. Fear for a sibling could do horrible things to a guy's personality. "She came home with that bird—she was crying, and she said that something bad had happened. But it was my fault that she was out that night. I should have been watching her, but I didn't. So I asked her if anything had happened to _her_ , and she said no, so I told her not to tell anyone what she saw, not even me. Stupid, I know," Joey continued, seeing Dean's expression. "But I didn't want to deal, as long as she was okay, you know? I didn't think that a ghost was going to come back and try to kill her for it."

"Yeah, well, let that be a lesson to you," Dean said lamely and then slid into the driver's seat of the Impala.

"Be careful," Sam advised.

Joey fidgeted. "So, where are you guys going now?"

"Well," Sam began.

"The Grand Canyon!" Dean bellowed from inside the car, waving his bandaged hands.

Sam laughed. "You heard the man. Grand Canyon it is."

"Well." Joey stopped fidgeting and looked Sam in the eye. At least, that's what it looked like from Dean's point of view. "Thank you for saving us." He bent down awkwardly to make sure Dean had heard him. "Thank you."

"It's what we do," Sam said. He opened the door and got in, shutting it solidly, and Dean bounced in his seat, just a little.

"So," Dean said, fingers jittering across his steering wheel.

"Let's go, Dean." Sam grinned. "To the Grand Canyon!"

Dean smiled broadly, and the Impala purred in contentment as they got on the road again.


	4. Communication Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dean came back, it was already light, and Sam had not moved from his spot at the table once since his shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional story notes and disclaimers are in the first chapter.

It took Sam and Dean about three hours to get to the Grand Canyon with the rest of the tourist traffic. Sam spent the first hour raging internally at the bad, _bad_ drivers making what should have been an hour trip out of their way double that, and aggravating to boot, and the other two sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat, occasionally cracking an eye open to see how much they'd moved.

Dean seemed to be in a disgustingly good mood, singing along with his cassette tapes, fidgeting restlessly in his seat (or maybe dancing a little, Sam was never quite sure), jibing good-naturedly at the bad drivers in front of him, or cursing the occasional lunatic that cut  
in front of the Impala without a turn signal.

"You better watch it, you _Toyota_ ," Dean said under his breath as a small car darted in front of him, a bare inch left between their bumpers. "My girl will take your ass _down_."

Sam definitely didn't find that endearing.

Eventually, they made it out of the insane traffic into a little tourist center with directions for the Grand Canyon, and Dean spent a stupid amount of time dithering over whether he wanted to actually take a tour or do a hike himself. Sam let Dean talk, heard his voice as a kind of comforting white noise in the background until he heard Dean ask if he wanted to do the donkey ride. At that, he just couldn't keep a straight face.

"Dude, did you seriously just ask me if I wanted to ride a donkey?" Sam pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.

"I—what are you—" Dean blustered, and then looked away, the tips of his ears flushing pink. "Shut up."

Sam let his smile creep up his face. "I'm just saying, I'd pity the donkey that had to carry me."

"I said shut up, okay?" Dean scowled and turned back to the brochures.

"Why don't we grab a couple of bottles of water, some sandwiches, and just hike around?" Sam asked sympathetically. "It'll just be you, me, and the giant hole in the ground." Dean looked at him, eyes narrowed as though he was expecting Sam to mock him over his Grand Canyon fixation again, but Sam was completely serious and let it show on his face. "You're right, you know," Sam continued. "We've been from the west coast to the east coast and everywhere in between, but we've never seen this or Mount Rushmore or the cherry blossoms in Washington or even the biggest ball of twine in the world—"

"Do you _want_ to see that?" Dean asked, his face full of morbid curiosity.

"That's not the point," Sam said, frowning at Dean on principle. "I'm just saying that I'm completely behind this. One hundred percent. Let's just get lunch and go."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, and his smile was infectious. "Let's do that."

They went to the café next to the little tourist place and got some sandwiches to go, along with some water for Sam and a couple of cans of soda for Dean. While Dean was paying, Sam's phone rang in his pocket, and he flipped it open without looking, bringing it to his ear. "Sam Winchester," he said.

"Can you come out to play tonight, Sam?" Ruby asked playfully.

Instinctively, Sam turned away from Dean a little, hunching his shoulders. "I can't talk right now."

"Just give me a yes or no," Ruby said, her voice going tight and irritated. "Dean's not smart enough to figure out that it's me from that."

Sam glanced back at Dean, who had apparently conned the cashier into letting him get some potato chips. Dean shot Sam a smile when he noticed him looking, and something clenched in Sam's chest, hot and painful.

"Yeah," Sam said, smiling back at Dean. "I'll be there. I'm at—"

"I know where you're at," Ruby said, the amusement back in her voice. "And you two are so sweet I'm getting sick from the sugar overload. I'll text you when I'm there, all right? Just so that Dean doesn't have anything to worry about."

"Stop that," Sam said shortly. "I'll see you tonight." He hung up just as Dean sauntered back over to him, concern radiating from him like an aura.

"Who was that?" Dean asked, and then continued nonchalantly, "Do we have a hunt?"

Sam looked at Dean and saw it clearly, all written in his brother's body language. Dean wanted to do this, wanted to hike and be an idiot and have a picnic by the river at the bottom, but if Sam said a single word about a hunt needing their attention, he would drop everything, put their sandwiches in the back seat of the Impala, and high tail it out of there.

"No," Sam said, a little more forcefully than he meant to. "There's nothing you need to worry about at all. Other than keeping up with me."

Dean scoffed, exactly as Sam had meant him to. "The day I can't keep up with you is the day I turn in my hunter's badge.”

"Dean, there _isn't_ a hunter's badge," Sam said, heading back out toward the Impala to do a last cursory check to make sure they didn't need anything.

"Exactly." Dean sounded smug, even as he looked out toward the horizon, bright and blue and endless.

They hiked all afternoon, Dean looking like an excited kid over a bunch of rocks, Sam feeling indulgent and a little awed himself. They got back to the Impala as the sun was beginning to set, so Dean had to go to the panorama view at the South Rim for one last look. They stood there together at the little metal boundary that divided the outlook with a few of the other remaining tourists.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Dean whispered, staring out over the miles of canyon, still and stately in the darkening light. The canyon was dyed with shades of red and orange, shadows gathering as though the canyon was preparing to pull the curtains across the stage as soon as the sun was down completely.

"Yeah," Sam said, watching Dean watch the world. "It is."

~*~

It was almost midnight by the time Ruby texted Sam, another poke from her on how short of a leash Dean supposedly had him on, and Sam took a look at his brother while he was waiting for her to pick him up again. Dean was deep asleep, face mashed against his pillow, tired from the long day of hiking.

Sam heard a car pull up on the gravel outside and roughly ran a hand through his hair, picking up his keycard for the hotel and letting himself out. He went out to Ruby's car and sat in the passenger seat, giving her a nod of greeting.

As they drove off, Ruby glanced over at him from the corner of her eye, a smile creasing her lips. "It's been a while, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "it has."

"How's the hunting business been going for you?"

"Do you really want to do the small talk thing, Ruby?" Sam let his head loll back against the headrest.

"Yeah, sure. Why not? I live for small talk," Ruby said, her smile slowly becoming little more than a grimace of bared teeth. "We've been working together for months, now, and you still think me asking about your day is weird?"

"Was that what you were doing?" Sam asked. "Because what it sounded like to me was that you were asking about hunting so that you could lead in to poking at me about Dean again."

"Okay, I'll admit it." Ruby coaxed her car around a turn. "I'm curious. You're a different person when Dean isn't around. It's really something. Does his opinion mean so much to you?"

"You know it does," Sam said, low and taut.

"Then let me repeat myself. Tell him about what we do, Sam. Don't let him find out some other way."

"I don't need you to tell me how to handle my own brother, okay?" Sam said, shifting restlessly in his seat.

"Obviously you need somebody to do it!" Ruby insisted. "You're helping people by doing this. He'll understand."

"No, he won't, okay?" Sam exploded. "Stop the car, Ruby."

"Sam—"

"Stop the car!"

Ruby pulled into the parking lot of a hospital and threw the gear into park, crossing her arms over her chest so roughly it looked like it hurt. "There! We're here anyway!"

Sam got out of the car, slamming the door, and Ruby followed a second later. "He won't understand why I'm doing this," Sam said raggedly, turning on her. "He won't see that I'm saving lives or stopping demons. He'll just see that I'm using my powers that Azazel gave me after he begged me not to."

"Sam," Ruby said, clasping his hand in hers and staring up into his face. "That's why you have to be the one to tell him. Tell him what it was like to be here without you. He knows. He's felt it himself. Tell him about the people you saved—"

"I _can't_ ," Sam said, pulling away from her. "I can't stand thinking about how he'll _look_ at me." Sam inhaled one breath and then two, trying to calm himself. "Dean can't know, Ruby. That's it." Ruby opened her mouth to say something else, her eyes shadowed, and Sam shook his head. "Let's just hunt."

Ruby shook her head and turned away from him. "Fine. Whatever. The demon's in the hospital. I thought it'd be convenient if the emergency room was already there when you got him clean."

"Good thinking," Sam said tersely, following Ruby without complaint. They made their way through the hospital entrance, Ruby distracting the attendants on duty as Sam snagged a look at the duty roster. He made sure to take a separate elevator from her, just to make sure that no one would think to place him and Ruby together. She was just coming to the top of the stairs when the elevator doors slid open and let him out. "Okay," Sam said as she came to his side, "Where is it?"

Ruby gave him an annoyed look, crossing her arms over her chest. "You should be able to sense him this close. Try it."

Sam narrowed his eyes at Ruby and then obediently closed his eyes, stretching his hand out in front of him and concentrating on the oily feeling demons always left in the places they inhabited. There was Ruby next to him, of course, but he stretched his mind farther, darting into rooms and gliding, pushing his power into the air vents. His psychic sense bounced into something slick and nasty, and Sam opened his eyes, dropping his hand. The sudden transition into his physical senses made him a little nauseated, and he swayed in place for a second as he got his bearings.

"Are you okay?" Ruby asked, cupping his elbow to give him a little support.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just give me a second."

"Sure," Ruby said. "Did you find him?"

"Yeah, I think I did." Sam pointed down the hall to a closet near the other stairs. "He's somewhere around there. Either in a janitor, or-or a doctor. Someone that works here."

"You're almost able to tell what body he's in?" Ruby sounded pleased. "That's great. Really great." She squeezed his elbow in approval and walked slowly down the hall, both as a precautionary measure and also to give Sam enough time to catch up with her.

A doctor walked out of a room about three doors away from the stairs, dusting his hands off. He glanced up, took one look at them, and broke into a run.

"Sam!" Ruby shouted, but Sam was already there, shaking off his weakness and loping forward, stretching his hand out as he ran. The demon stumbled when Sam's powers caught him, tripping him in place so that he slammed up against the wall. The demon whirled around to face Sam, planting his hands against the wall and readying a smirk.

"Save it," Sam said, coming to a stop in front of the demon. "Whatever you want to bitch at me about, don't waste your breath. I couldn't care less. Have fun in hell." The demon opened his mouth, maybe to snark back anyway or maybe to smoke his ass out of the body, but Sam pressed his power forward before the demon could do anything, pulling him out of the host with an ease that surprised him. The last one hadn't caused Sam any headaches or nosebleeds, but it had still been a little difficult to maintain his concentration. This time, the demon slid out of the vessel like water dripping from a faucet — slow at first, but quick to gain momentum, until it swirled at their feet and prickled into embers.

The doctor fell forward, but Sam was quick enough to stop the fall and pressed his fingers to the doctor's throat, checking for a pulse. It was there, strong and steady; the demon must not have had him for very long. All the same, Sam felt the thrill of victory and the rush of adrenaline that always came over him after he successfully used his power, and he turned to grin at Ruby, forgetting about their earlier argument. Ruby returned his smile, fierce and feral and full of hunger.

She vanished into one of the rooms and came back out with a stretcher, tugging it against the wall. Sam flopped the doctor onto it, taking care not to give him any additional bruises, and followed Ruby as she went back down the stairs. They snuck past the nurses and the receptionist, laughing together like two children and made it out to the car without anyone else in that hospital being the wiser.

Sam let his laughter ring out a little, allowing himself that bit of freedom now that they were safely out of the hospital, and leaned his elbows against the car, looking to Ruby to share some of his excitement; Ruby smiled and snaked closer, snagging his belt loops with her fingers as she raised on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Sam pressed into her, following the guidance of her hands, and then pulled away. "No, Ruby."

"What?" Ruby asked, settling back down onto her heels. "What you did, how easy it was—it was hot." She abandoned his belt loops to slide her hands under his shirt, stroking at the skin of his sides. "And I've missed you."

Sam brought his hands down to capture Ruby's wrists, tugging her hands out of his shirt. "I don't think I can do this anymore."

"What?" Ruby asked, disbelieving. "But, I thought you—"

"I did," Sam admitted. "And it was okay, then. But not okay now. Dean is. Dean would—"

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Ruby repeated; each time she said the name she got angrier and angrier until she yanked her hands out of Sam's grip. "Dean isn't _here_ , Sam! What _is_ this? I was okay for a fling when your brother was dead, but now that he's back, all of a sudden you have to be a good boy?" Ruby took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're not just the little brother anymore, Sam! You can do what you want!"

"Oh, that's just great," Sam said. "This coming from the demon who wants to tell my brother what we've been doing?"

"What, I've suddenly become _the demon_ again?" Ruby asked hotly, uncrossing her arms and putting one hand on her hip. "And don't you twist my words, Sam. I said that he needs to know about your powers, but it's not anybody's business what we do on our own time, not even Dean's." Ruby's eyes darkened. "Unless—"

"Unless what?" Sam asked, hating himself for asking.

She cocked her head to the side, looking at him unblinkingly. "Oh, Sam," Ruby said, her tone silky. It made Sam's pulse race. "I know I was joking about it before, but maybe there was some truth in it after all?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sam said stiffly as Ruby swayed closer.

"Maybe you and your brother _did_ have that kind of relationship," Ruby breathed, brushing her lips against Sam's collar. "Is _that_ what this is really all about? I was the whore you played with while your brother was away?" Ruby danced her fingers along the edge of Sam's jeans, and Sam shuddered, his breath coming a little faster. "Maybe you're not being a _good_ boy at all."

"Ruby—" Sam began, but Ruby raised a hand to his mouth, silencing him. Ruby trailed her fingers from his lips, across his cheek, leaving little prickles of sensation in her wake.

"Or maybe," Ruby purred contemplatively, "this is another one of your secrets. Does Dean know this, Sam? That you want _him_ to do this?" Ruby pressed Sam against the car, slow and sensuous, and Sam swallowed painfully, face flushing.

"I don't—" Sam began to say, but Ruby just tilted her head, her eyes heated and piercing.

"You don't need to lie to me. Close your eyes, Sam. We can play pretend."

"Ruby, seriously—"

"What do you want him to do, Sammy? Do you want him to press you up against the Impala, like this? Out in public, where anyone can see how bad you're being? I'd bet he'd blow you, you know. He's got the mouth for it." Ruby dropped to her knees, fingers working at his belt slowly.

Sam clenched his eyes shut and turned his face away, embarrassment and arousal curling in his gut. Was he really so obvious about his feelings for Dean that Ruby could pick it out only weeks after he'd discovered it himself? And god help him, he couldn't help participating in Ruby's disgusting game, couldn't help but imagine kissing Dean until his lips were swollen, the way he would smell, like leather and gunpowder, the prickle of his hair against Sam's palm. Sam curled his hand into a fist, his palm tingling with sense memory, and Ruby unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down with agonizing slowness. Sam wanted to put his hand on Ruby's head, to guide her, but he was torn between wanting the fantasy of Dean and wanting to disrupt it, so his hand remained still, hovering in the air over her.

He gritted his teeth against the arousal in him, but then Ruby's hands clamped on his hips, holding him still with a strength that he sometimes forgot she had, and he made a small, desperate sound, inhaling sharply. Ruby laughed, a small, husky sound, and gave him one long, teasing lick, from the root to the tip of his erection.

"Oh, Sammy, you want it so bad," Ruby crooned, and Sam felt her thumb at his slit, her skin going from rough to slick with his pre-come.

"Don't—nnn—call me Sammy," Sam gasped out and reached back for the hood of the car, just to have something to support him.

Ruby wrapped her lips around the crown of his dick and sucked, little zings of pleasure shooting up his spine. He tried to hold still, to allow Ruby to suck at him tentatively, playing at uncertainty, but his hips had other ideas, and he thrust, knowing Ruby could take it. She allowed him, her mouth widening as she inhaled more of him down. It was hot and wet, Ruby's suction perfect and aching in his balls, but then she pulled back, slapping his thigh playfully.

"Do you really think Dean would be experienced enough at cock sucking to do that, Sam? You're not playing by the rules," Ruby said, and Sam had to take a moment to breathe, the thought of Dean being inexperienced at anything regarding sex causing his dick to twitch with excitement.

There was a slick sound, and Sam cracked his eyes open enough to watch Ruby lick her palm and then wrap it around the base of his erection, licking at the head as if it were a lollipop. She stared up at him brazenly, her eyes glittering with something he couldn't identify. Sam dropped his hands to her hair, dragging her up, and Ruby came willingly, mouth damp and shiny, tilting her head to be kissed. Sam didn't disappoint her, leaning down to suck at her bottom lip as he fumbled behind him with his other hand, reaching for the door handle that had been pressing into his spine.

He got the door open and scooped Ruby up against him, his arousal pressing into her stomach, and Ruby made an animalistic sound, biting at his mouth and rubbing against him, one hand going to Sam's hair, the other to palm his erection again. Sam gently pushed Ruby back into the back seat of her car, and followed after her, drawing his hands up her sides and pushing her shirt out of the way. He licked at her navel, sank his teeth just above the line of her jeans, and Ruby moaned under him, squirming in the small space.

Sam took a second to close the door behind him as Ruby wiggled out of her shirt, and then they were pressed back together, heat rising between them. Ruby wrapped her arms around Sam's head, fingers scratching through his hair, and he bent down to suck at her nipple through the white cotton bra she was wearing, groaning as it hardened against his tongue. He bit at the flesh there, brought his hand up to cup her other breast and squeeze, and Ruby moaned, throwing her head against the seat and sinking her nails into his back. She squirmed enough to get the room to let her thighs fall open, and he slid into the juncture of her legs, the denim of her jeans chafing against him.

Sam fumbled at the fastener of Ruby's jeans, biting at her shoulder and sucking on her collarbone as he unzipped the fly. Ruby shoved at his shoulders, and they wriggled until

Sam was on his back, Ruby over him as she shimmied out of her jeans and underwear. Sam moved his hand between her legs to stroke against her clitoris as she clambered over him again, and Ruby moaned appreciatively, rocking her hips against him as she bent down for a kiss. Sam returned it messily, licking against her teeth and darting his tongue in her mouth to twist against hers, and Ruby separated their mouths with a wet, dirty sound, leaning over to press her lips to his ear instead.

"You wish I was him, don't you?" Ruby continued relentlessly, and Sam made a pained sound, turning his head away as he brought his slick palm from the apex of her thighs to the swell of her hip, rocking her downward against his aching flesh. "You want him to let you in like this. Just like this," Ruby breathed, and she stretched toward the front seat to grab a condom from the glove box and rip it open, sliding it over Sam with practiced hands.

"Ruby—" Sam lost whatever his next words were going to be as she sank down on him, hot and clenching, one smooth slide until he was balls deep in her cunt; she began to move, short, punishing, delicious thrusts against him.

"It wouldn't be as easy as this," Ruby moaned, twisting her hips in a way that made Sam clutch at her and shake. "He would fight you every step of the way, even if he wanted it too. But—oh—he'd feel so good. It'd be worth it. He'd be so—so&mdash _Sam_ —" She tore at her collarbone with her long nails, blood beading up in a thin line.

Ruby trembled around him as she climaxed, and Sam thrust, followed her into it, every muscle clenched taut with pleasure. Sam clasped her tight to him, hands in her hair, cradling her skull roughly, and sucked at her blood, hungry for it as he sobbed into her shoulder, thinking _Dean, Dean, Dean_.

~*~

Ruby dropped Sam off in front of the hotel room, and Sam sighed. Hopefully, Dean would be asleep, because Sam smelled like sex, and all he wanted to do was get a shower and collapse into bed. He slid his key card into the lock and opened the door, immediately realizing that he wasn't going to be as lucky as to get off that easily as soon as he looked inside.

Dean was sitting on the end of his bed, staring into the air in front of him. His jaw clenched when Sam stepped into the room, but that was the only movement.

Sam closed the door behind him; it felt like he was caging himself in with an angry animal. "Hey, Dean," he said and winced at how fake his voice sounded, too hearty and loud in the quiet.

"Where were you, Sam?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam decided to fake ignorance and made his way over to the bathroom. "What do you mean, where was I? I went to get some—"

"Don't lie to me," Dean interrupted, his voice cold and tense.

Sam took a breath, swallowed what he'd been about to say. This was bad. "What makes you think I was lying to you?" Sam asked, turning away from the bathroom to look more closely at Dean.

"I got a visit from a little bird tonight," Dean said, apropos of nothing.

"A little … " Sam began and then went silent, his stomach sinking. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'," Dean said, a mirthless smile twisting his mouth. "He said 'your brother is heading down a dark path.' He said 'stop him.' Care to tell me what he was talking about?"

"Why didn't your angel give you all the details, then? Why ask me?" Sam defensively crossed his arms over his chest.

"Funny, wise guy. That's a real gut buster." Dean shook his head and stood, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I asked him, but he just said that I should talk to you. So, I'm talking."

"Dean." Sam took a step forward, reaching out for Dean. "Please. Can we talk about this in the morning?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not? Don't let me disturb your beauty sleep." Dean took a step back and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, his voice plaintive and small.

"Out." The door slammed shut behind him.

Sam stared toward the door, and it was only then that he noticed his hand was raised as though he could pull Dean back with just the power of his mind. He heard the Impala start up and pull out, and he dropped his hand, leaning back against the doorframe with exhaustion. After a minute, he went into the bathroom and closed the door, shucking off his clothes and getting into the shower. He washed himself thoroughly, numb and feeling detached, and then stood in the fall of water, arms braced against the wall.

Sam reared back and punched the wall in front of him; he winced as he felt the skin over his knuckles split and new that he'd pay for it later, but adrenaline took the pain away. What was more important was that it felt good, so he did it again, watching as his blood dripped down his fist and vanished down the shower drain.

After that, Sam rested his head against the wall he'd just punched, and tried to figure out what he could say to Dean to make this better. He couldn't think of anything, and eventually the water pounding into him went cold. He got out of the shower, dried his hair and wrapped a towel around his hips before opening the door of the bathroom.

Sam got dressed and tidied up his little mess, folding the towels out of habit, and then he went to the table by the window to sit and wait for Dean to come back. His hand ached, even after he'd bandaged it and taken some aspirin for the pain.

When Dean came back, it was already light, and Sam had not moved from his spot at the table once since his shower.

"Where were you, Dean?" Sam asked softly.

"Oh, so you don't like it so much when you're on the receiving end, do you?" Dean scoffed and shoved the car keys into his pocket.

Sam sighed and shook his head. "I never left when you were awake."

Dean crossed his arms. "But you admit that you left."

"Yes," Sam agreed. "I did."

Dean waited silently for a moment and then arched an eyebrow at Sam. "Is this going to be like pulling a tooth? Do I have to keep asking you?"

Sam flushed and stood, feeling more comfortable now that Dean had to look up in order to give him the angry stare. "I was … hunting."

"Hunting," Dean said flatly.

"Yeah. Hunting demons. With Ruby." Sam cleared his throat.

"Oh! Well, that explains it all! Everything's peachy!" Dean said, and Sam thought that _maybe_ he could inject more sarcasm into his words if he tried _really hard_. "Hunting with _Ruby_ , Sam? Didn't you tell me that she was gone when I asked about her? What's so important that you had to lie about it to me?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that I'm hanging out with a demon might stop me from telling you," Sam spat. "And don't even act like you've never lied to me about anything!"

"Is that all?" Dean asked suddenly, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He looked at Sam, and Sam could see the desperation written all over his face. "Is that what Castiel was talking about? You're just … buddies with the demon bitch?"

"I … " Sam sighed, his own self-righteousness deflating, and sank back into his chair, running a hand through his rumpled hair. Ruby had been right. He should have told Dean everything a long time ago. "No, that's not all. Sit down, Dean. Please."

Dean took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself, and walked over to Sam, pulling the other chair out from the table and pointedly sitting in it. "Okay," Dean said quietly.

"I've been hunting demons with Ruby," Sam repeated and took a small breath, already tensing up at the idea of Dean's reaction to the next part. "She's been teaching me how to use my powers."

"How to use your … " Dean trailed off, going very still.

Sam gestured at himself, plowing forward now that there was no going back. "I can use my, you know, my mind. To exorcise them." Dean tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, and Sam slunk down into his chair, absolutely unwilling to tell Dean about the other stuff. He was pretty sure Castiel wouldn't care about his sex life anyway. "But that's everything, Dean. I promise."

Dean shook his head at that, laughing bitterly. "I'm sure." Dean got up from his seat and stood there, looking a little lost. Then his expression firmed up into something approaching certainty and he went over to the closet and started to pull his clothes out.

"Dean," Sam said nervously, hating that quaver in his voice, and Dean whirled around, stalking into Sam's space and swinging a fist that connected solidly with Sam's jaw.

"Ow!" Sam brought a hand up to his face, cradling his jaw in his palm for a moment. "Okay, I deserved that. Are you finished?"

Dean stopped for a second, as though to consider, and punched Sam again, splitting his lip painfully.

"I guess not," Sam said, stubbornly keeping his eyes on Dean. "Dean—"

The third punch made him bite his tongue hard, and Sam surged to his feet, angry and in pain. "Will you quit hitting me?" he yelled.

Dean paused again, and Sam waited tensely, ready to bring an arm up to block just in case Dean felt particularly bloodthirsty. "I'm good," Dean decided and grabbed some ice from the freezer to toss at Sam before he went back to the closet.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, holding the ice gingerly to his face.

"Well," Dean said slowly, as he set his first batch of clothing on the bed and then went over to the drawers, just to make sure he didn't have anything in there, "It seems like you're doing a stand up job on your own. There's no need for me to be here. Not with a demon watching your back."

"Dean, no," Sam said, taking a step forward. "Don't, please—"

"What do you expect me to do, Sam?" Dean whirled on him again, eyes pained and so very green, and Sam _hated_ himself, _hated_ how he wanted to burrow against him and kiss his brother until all of Dean's objections went away. "You're using your psychic mojo and hanging out with a demon and lying to me about it. I can't even _begin_ to tell you what's wrong with that!”

"Dean!" Sam pleaded, dropping the ice that he was holding onto the floor, frantic to make him understand, "I'm _saving_ people! I'm only using it for the exorcisms, I promise!"

"You're exorcising demons with your mind!" Dean shouted at him from across the bed. "Do you even know how far you've gone, how far from _human_ that is?"

"It's worth it, Dean! I've saved more people in the last five months than we did in a whole year!"

"If this is so good, then why did you lie to me about it? Why did an _angel_ tell me to stop you?" Dean looked around, as though he wanted to hit something again and stalked up to Sam, grasping the lapels of his shirt in his hands and yanking him close. "If I didn't know you, Sammy?" Dean breathed, voice low, "I'd want to hunt you. And other hunters would too."

Dean let Sam's shirt go, and Sam inhaled wetly, eyes prickling with heat as he stared at his brother. His phone rang, breaking the tense, brittle silence, and he brought a hand up to his forehead as he answered it. "Hello?" Dean turned away toward the little kitchen cubby, scrubbing at the back of his head with his hand.

"Is this the way you treat all your friends, boy?" Missouri's brash Southern accent cut through the line, and Sam winced, smiling just a little. "Now, just 'cause your daddy died doesn't mean that you should be a stranger, you got that?"

"Hey, Missouri," Sam said weakly. "Sorry that I haven't talked to you. Um. This really isn't a good time—"

"Balderdash!" Missouri interrupted him. "You listen here and you listen good, Sam Winchester. This is what you're going to do. You're going to get into that old gas guzzler of yours and you're going to high tail it over to my place, you got that? And bring that fool brother of yours. I have gutters that need cleaning."

"Missouri—" Sam tried again, but she cut through his words as though they didn't even exist.

"Don't you sass me! Get a move on, now!" The line went dead, and Sam was left feeling like he'd just been bowled over by a Mack truck. And with as hard as Dean's fist was, he'd probably be looking like it in a couple of hours.

Sam sighed. Dean turned to look at the clothing that he'd gathered as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with them anymore.

"How do you feel about a road trip to Kansas?" Sam asked softly, offering the words as an almost apology that he was sure Dean would hear and understand, even if he ignored them.

"I can't let you face Missouri on your own," Dean said eventually and continued to pack his duffle bag. "Even though I should. She likes you better, anyway."

"I think she likes you better," Sam said and pulled out his bag as well. "That's why she lets you near her gutters."

And if the atmosphere between them was still tense and awkward, Sam wasn't going to complain. Maybe going to see Missouri would give Dean some time to cool down and think about the benefits his powers might bring them.

That was probably wishful thinking, though, and Sam knew it.


	5. Interlude: Blessed is the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missouri gets more house guests than she expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had this sitting on my hard drive for a while now. Enjoy?
> 
> Additional story notes and disclaimers are in the first chapter.

Missouri would be lying if she said that her feelings weren't at least a tiny bit hurt by the fact that the Winchester boys didn't stop and say hello to her every once in a while. She had spoken to John quite often, but Sam and Dean seemed to be pretty self-contained, even though they'd apparently rather go to second-rate psychics that didn't know when to back off than to someone with the experience and know how to tell them things that they needed to know without getting the who-knew-what kicked out of them. And getting Sam's number out of Bobby had been like pulling teeth. That man was more protective of them than their father had ever been, and that was saying something. Winchesters. Dumb as bricks, the lot of them, bless their souls.

Missouri went out and weeded her garden for an hour after she made the call to Sam. She had a nice little routine going on these days, and even the excitement of the boys' arrival wasn't going to spoil it for her. She did the dishes, did a little vacuuming, made sure that the guest bedrooms were nice and aired out, although she was tempted to fill them up a little just so she could give Dean a little more work. That kid was hopeless unless he was given something to do. And Sam, from what she'd heard, was useless without Dean.

She heard wheels in her driveway at about four o'clock, which had been a little later than she'd expected, but still in time for dinner; she checked the jambalaya she had simmering on the stove as the doorbell rang. She made them wait a minute while she tasted the jambalaya, and then went over to the door, pulling it open. Sure enough, there were the boys, slouching their shoulders and looking like they'd rather be anywhere else in the world than on her porch. Power poured off of them in waves. Some of it was theirs. Most of it wasn't.

"Sam and Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe." Missouri opened the screen door and came out to greet them. "Come here and give me a hug. No backtalk, now!" Sam gave in first, smiling sheepishly and bending down far enough for her to pat him on the head. Missouri turned to Dean, with her arms held out expectantly and heard the snarky thoughts beginning to coalesce in his brain before he even did. Instead of the hug like she wanted, she whacked him on the back of his head with her open palm. "Don't you start sassing me before we've even said hello, Dean," she scolded.

Dean gave her an injured look. Behind her, Sam hid a quiet laugh. "I didn't even do anything!" Dean protested.

"You sure were thinking it." Missouri set her hands on her hips, giving him the stink eye, and then gave him a big hug before he could get away. "Come in, come in! Leave your shoes at the door. I just vacuumed not that long ago. Are you hungry?" She didn't wait for an answer as she herded them into the kitchen. She gave Sam and Dean a critical once over. "I'll just bet you are. You look like you've been surviving on pie and potato chips."

She patted Dean's stomach, amazed that he managed to keep in such good shape despite his horrible eating habits. Judging by the offended stare she was getting, however, he took it the wrong way as usual. Still, she didn't bother to correct him. If he knew how fond of him she was, there'd be no end to the boy's swelled head.

Missouri pointed to the bathroom off toward the living room. "You two go wash up. I'll make some tea, and then we'll have us a sit down."

They obediently went to go get cleaned up, and Missouri got the tea ready, choosing something nice and fragrant for her and Sam, and a fine, strong black tea for Dean. All three cups were brewing nicely by the time the boys got back, and she watched them as they took their seats. They did it as they always did—across from each other, with Missouri's chair at the head of the table and therefore between them, but their body language was interesting. Sam's body was turned toward Dean, even though his attention was politely on her, while Dean—Dean was all hunched away from Sam, facing her entirely. Missouri gave an internal sigh, wondering how she was going to get them all fixed before something worse happened.

"So, uh," Sam cleared his throat, and she was a little amused that he was the one who broke first. "You called?"

"Yes." Missouri nodded, settling into her chair more comfortably. "And first, let me tell you that I don't much appreciate having to track you down like that. You didn't call me about your father, or when Sam died—oh, yes, I heard about that," she said in answer to Dean's unasked question, "or when the Devil's Gate was opened, or when _Dean_ died—I'm not happy with you. I told you to call me, any time, not to let me find out through the grapevine that things aren't going all that well. Second—" Dean raised his hand, tentatively; Missouri wanted to pinch his cheek. "Yes?"

Dean coughed. "Did you call us out here just so you could yell at us?"

"Yes," Missouri said decisively. "That, and to give you a little advice."

Sam fidgeted. "Couldn't you have told us this over the phone?" At Missouri's look, Sam hastened to explain. "It's just that a lot of things are going on right now, and while I don't mind coming to visit you, like I said on the phone, it was a bad time."

"I'm glad of the interruption." Dean turned to look at Sam for the first time since they'd sat at her table, his face hard and bitter. And that was a whole can of worms that she didn't want to touch. She hated the fact that she had to.

"Is it this nonsense about Sam's powers?" Missouri took a moment to sip at her tea while the boys did their best cod impersonations. "Don't look like that—I've known Sam was psychic ever since you boys cleared the poltergeist out of your old house. Now, look here. I don't condone the use of those demon powers of yours, Sam, but you have to realize that you've got a natural psychic sensitivity. That's why you were such a good target in the first place. But using those powers that the yellow-eyed demon gave you? There's a reason why they say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions." She waved her hand at Sam, trying to encompass the whole of his being. "And it's all over you, honey. That demon that you've allied yourself with. Just remember that you can't never trust them. They've always got their own agendas, even the ones that are trying to play nice. That said, they never play nice unless you're giving them something they want."

Dean scoffed; Missouri shot him a narrow look, but he didn't swallow the sound like she expected him to; he just looked at her defiantly until Sam cleared his throat.

"Thanks," Sam said. "I'll keep that in mind. It's just … I."

"You?" Missouri asked.

"I just feel like these powers," Sam said, struggling to find the right words, and Missouri would have cut him off, spared him the pain, except for the fact that Dean needed to hear it, too. "They were forced on me. And, I mean—Azazel bled into my mouth to make me stronger—"

"How did you know about that?" Dean interrupted, and Sam turned surprised eyes toward his brother.

"How do _you_ know about that?"

"I asked first." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, and Sam shook his head.

"I learned about it about a year ago." There was something apologetic in Sam's face that Missouri couldn't quite read, and she quirked an eyebrow, settling back into her chair. Sam had gotten himself into a pickle this time.

"Oh, so it's something else you weren't going to tell me, was it?" Dean leaned back, his jaw working like he was grinding his teeth.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam said. Missouri shook her head and folded her hands around her tea, content to let the boys work out this part by themselves.

"You're saying that to me a lot, lately." Dean half-rose from his seat, slamming his palm down on the table hard enough to rattle his cup. "If you were just honest with me, we wouldn't even be arguing about this in the first place."

"You keep acting like you're the only one that doesn't make mistakes!"

"I'm not even talking about mistakes!" Dean whirled away from the table and threw his hands in the air. That boy was so dramatic. He should have been an actor. "I'm talking about lies, dangerous ones. I'm talking about going around with a demon behind my back! I'm talking about frigging Castiel—" And that was interesting, right there; _belief_ , buried so deep he probably didn't even realize he felt it— "who told me to take care of you or they'll take care of you themselves. I'm talking about all the ways that you can get us killed like this. Again."

Sam opened his mouth as though he wanted to continue arguing but just sighed instead. "I know you don't believe me. There's nothing more that I can say."

"Sit down, Dean," Missouri intervened quietly. "Drink your tea."

Dean made a face but sat down anyway, looking at the tea as though it were a viper just waiting to strike at him.

"Dean Winchester!" she began, but he picked up the tea cup and took a sip before she could work up a good head of steam. She went to check on the jambalaya again to give them both a moment to cool down and found it very nearly ready. Maybe another ten, fifteen minutes tops.

"Now, you, Dean." Missouri returned to her seat, picking up the thread of her monologue as though she hadn't paused it in the middle so that the boys could argue. "My biggest suggestion for you is that you read the Bible. How'd you manage to get angels lurking around you, boy? They must have plans." She sat down in her seat and gave Dean a penetrating look. For once, it felt like she had his undivided attention. "They might be the good guys," she told him, "but the angels never choose a warrior without requiring a sacrifice from their champion. And I feel it shining on you the same way I feel the demons on Sam. They've got something big in mind for you. You need to decide if you're willing to do it."

Dean stared at her, and Missouri stared back, raising an inquiring eyebrow. "That's all I wanted to tell you, Dean. Do you have any questions?"

Dean blinked and shook his head. "Not really."

"Good." Missouri smiled. "Then that means that you can go rake my leaves before dinner's ready. The rake is in the closet in the laundry room."

"Are you freaking k—" Dean began, but Missouri smacked him on the arm.

"What did I say about sassing me?" Missouri drew herself up, just waiting for Dean to start causing trouble, but Dean stood, slinking unhappily toward the laundry room. "And don't think nasty things like that at me!" she snapped at his back as she caught the tail end of something that she didn't have nearly the flexibility to achieve.

Missouri heard the front door close and turned to Sam again. Sam seemed to sense that something else was going to be brought up, because he hadn't made an attempt to leave the table, and just sat there, staring at his hands. "Sam." Missouri sighed and reached for Sam's hand, giving it a squeeze. "You have _got_ to be careful. Those thoughts swirling about in your head—let's just say that they're not like you at all." Sam flushed brightly and nodded. Good. She didn't need to go into details. "Now, I'm not trying to get into your privacy or anything like that—I don't know what you're doing with who. I just know that you're walking a thin line. I don't want you or your brother to get hurt because of that."

"I don't want that, either." Sam turned pained, dark eyes on her. "I remember what it felt like while Dean was gone. I don't want to feel anything like that again."

"Be careful, and I don't think you'll have to." Missouri patted his hand again and released him. "Now go on and help Dean out in the yard. I'll call you boys when dinner is ready."

Sam paused by the door and turned back. "I'm really glad you called, Missouri. We did miss you."

Missouri smiled. "I know. Scat. Go on, now."

*

Missouri was drowsing in her favorite arm chair in the living room, satisfied that the boys had been stuffed full of jambalaya and cornbread. They had both wished her good night and had gone to bed a couple of hours ago, but Missouri had a suspicion that she'd wanted to have confirmed. Two in the morning was incredibly late by her standards, but she would have stayed up a lot longer than that to get some answers.

All the same, she wasn't disappointed. There had been one influence on Dean that was not explained by the angels, and although she hadn't asked the boys at dinner, she knew through the grapevine that Dean had been dragged down to Hell by Lilith's hounds, and that was bound to leave some sort of mark. And for the poor boy to remember everything—that was cruel.

Missouri felt the air in the house change when Dean's dreams began to chase him across his mind; the air didn't so much _change_ as perhaps her _perception_ changed, and she went slowly over to his room, feeling the urge to soothe him. Before she got there, though, another presence came into her home, one she had not anticipated by any means.

When she opened the door to Dean's room, there was a man in a tan trench coat sitting beside him on the bed, unmoving. On a cursory glance, Missouri thought that maybe just the man being there had been enough to calm Dean, and with that, she knew exactly who he was.

He raised his head and looked at her as though she had spoken to him. They stared at each other, and after a moment, he got up and came to her, closing the door to Dean's room and standing in her hallway.

And Missouri, well, she never liked to think she could get intimidated, so she barreled on just as if he were a normal guy. "So I take it you're Castiel?"

Castiel gave her a look, strange and mildly curious. "I am."

"You have better things to do than to perch on Dean Winchester's shoulder, don't you?" she couldn't resist asking.

Castiel tilted his head, still looking at her unblinkingly. "I do, but my brethren are searching for the next seal. They will call if I am needed."

Missouri left the hallway and went into the kitchen, gesturing for Castiel to follow her. "Sit with me for a moment." Castiel took a seat, looking at her as though she were vaguely interesting. "Do you do that every night?" Missouri cocked her head toward Dean's room as she puttered over to her fridge. "Soothe the nightmares of hell away?"

"Not every night."

"If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are your plans for Dean?" Missouri poured two cups of iced tea. She set one in front of Castiel, who didn't bother to look at it.

"I have no personal plans for Dean," Castiel watched her curiously as she took a drink of her tea. He looked at the glass in front of him and mimicked her, taking a sip from his cup. She couldn't tell from his expression whether he liked it or hated it.

"There must be something that you're waiting for him to do." Missouri measured her words, folding her hands in front of her as she watched Castiel. "Or maybe something that God wants him to do?"

Castiel nodded once. "The Lord has plans for Dean. However, I'm not privy to a great many of the details."

"And yet, you keep him safe."

Castiel nodded in agreement. "When I can." He sounded as though he were going to say more, but then he tilted his head as though listening to something far away. "I must go." Castiel looked mildly apologetic and vanished from the table.

Missouri took a sip of her tea before getting up and taking Castiel's mostly full cup over to the sink. She had a feeling that God wasn't the only one who worked in mysterious ways, but she wasn't going to say anything to anyone. Some things were just best when you kept your nose out of them.

*

The next morning, Missouri stuffed the boys full of another meal, this one all eggs and bacon, grits and toast, and smoothed their jackets over their shoulders affectionately.

"Thank you for breakfast," Dean said, and for once he didn't mean anything other than what he said.

"You're very welcome," Missouri said with a smile, and turned to look at Sam, to make sure he knew he was included. "Don't you boys dare go two years without calling or coming to visit, do you hear me? I won't be happy if I'm forced to hunt you down again."

"We got it," Sam said with a grin.

He looked a little better, a little less ragged around the edges. Missouri supposed the good food and a night of actual rest had helped him a little bit. Dean was looking a lot better himself. She tucked some of her strong black tea into his pocket, knowing he wouldn't notice it for miles and would probably throw it out as soon as he realized what it was, but doing so anyway. It would be good for the kid to know she cared at least a little bit, even if not as much as the angel who secretly perched more on his shoulder than he was supposed to.

Sam and Dean waved at her a final time before they got into the Impala, and she watched them until she couldn't see the back lights of the Impala any longer. You had to hand it to those Winchesters, she thought as she went back into her house to watch _The Price is Right_. When something crazy was happening, you could always count on them to be right smack dab in the middle.


End file.
